


Take Me to Fucking Church

by teyla



Category: In the Loop (2009) & The Thick of It, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Backstory, British Politics, British Press, British Slang, Canon Compliant, Complicated Relationships, Crisis of Faith, Developing Relationship, Discovery of Sexuality, Eventual Happy Ending, Gay Character, Glasgow, HIV Crisis, Internalized Homophobia, Journalism, London, Loss of Faith, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Minor US Politics, Post-Goolding Inquiry, Roman Catholicism, Scottish Character, Seminary School, Slow Burn, Swearing, The 90s, The Goolding Inquiry, bi character, the 00s, the 80s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-12 04:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11153937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teyla/pseuds/teyla
Summary: Having a relationship with Malcolm is difficult, difficult, lemon-difficult. So is growing up poor in Glasgow, being gay in the eighties, and rebranding a major political party. Jamie and Malcolm take a rough three decades to figure it all out, but in the end, it’s the journey that matters. Right?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I stumbled into this fandom a few months ago, and then _this_ happened. So let me sit you down and tell you the story of Malcolm and Jamie. The _entire_ story of Malcolm and Jamie. I did so much research, you guys.
> 
> We're looking at 11 chapters of about 4 to 6k words each, and I'll be posting in weekly installments. You can read this if you haven't seen the show. It references canon (in fact, it takes place around canon), but only in the later chapters, so you should be able to figure out what's going on.
> 
> Endless gratitude goes to [trick-please](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EveJobs/pseuds/trick-please), for being an amazing first reader, to [topaz-eyes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz_eyes), for checking my politics and murdering my exposition, and to [neery](http://archiveofourown.org/users/neery/), for catching every single instance of me being lazy and making me fix it. Couldn't have done it without you. <3
> 
> Enjoy! Have fun! Leave a comment and tell me what you think! :D

Jamie is twelve, and Jamie believes that home is where the heart is.

His hometown is not what you’d call picture-fucking-esque, ‘scuse the French. Steel is what keeps Motherwell going, Ravenscraig’s towers looming over her like the Four Horsemen of the Industrial Apocalypse. But beauty’s on the inside, and being inside Motherwell means being _cared_ for. As long as there’s steel, nobody will ever want for a job. The world’s always going to be needing steel, right?

Jamie’s not aiming for a slot at the conveyor belts, though. Life, he figures, is simple: Monday to Friday, you work your job; Saturday, you see your mates, and on Sunday, you see to your afterlife. That’s got to be the most important part, right? Life’s going to be over soon enough, but the afterlife, that’s forever, and you’d better make sure it’s going to be a good one.

He’s going to be helping folk do exactly that. Wee Jamie MacDonald is going to become a priest.

When he tells his mam, she thinks it’s a great idea. The Church will take care of you, she tells him, better than she’s able to, what with the little one on the way and all. And perhaps up in Cardross they’ll put more than prayers and ministrations in your head. You might get a real _education_. Imagine that.

He writes home to tell her about the big, modern building with the tall chapel and the drafty hallways that he spends his days in. Tells her about his favourite priest, Father Duncan, and his mates, none of them as young as he but all of them just as devoted to their calling. Except the ones that turn tail and run, bloody loser-cunts the lot of them (‘scuse the French); feels like there’s another one every day. Like rats off of a sinking ship, except the Church _isn’t_ sinking, of course; she’s the good mothership of hope and righteousness, and all those ratty bumwipes are going to drown in a sea of tears when they realise they abandoned the buoyancy of the Faith for so many empty promises.

As he gets older, his childhood scrawl settles into an angry scribble. Father Duncan tells him that while passion is a virtue, Wrath is a sin. Jamie tries to take it to heart, but like the Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ in Herod’s Temple, he’s weak in the face of indifference. Indifference, Jamie is starting to figure out, is what people have begun to call Sloth in order to maintain the illusion of their innocence.

He’s sixteen before he sees Motherwell again; spends two weeks at his mam’s while the seminary relocates from Cardross to Newlands. It’s about time they moved out of that shite old building, he tells her. Feels like he’s had this cold for years; you can’t build a monolith like that and expect not to incur some form of punishment. Pride’s a deadly sin, after all.

But it’s not going to be long anymore now. In a couple of years, they’ll grant him ordination. He’ll be able to finally do some good. Not a second too soon, judging by the state of the town. Turns out that the world always needing steel doesn’t mean the steel will always come from Ravenscraig.

\------

Merrylee House is a former convent of the Franciscan Sisters of Immaculate Conception. It’s drafty, too, and filled with the ghosts of dead nuns (all the action we’re ever going to get, Frankie jokes, and Jamie has to explain to him in no uncertain terms that if he breaks his celibacy with a ghost, that’s still him breaking his fucking celibacy; getting no action is the fucking _point_ , you ingrate), but it’s only an hour’s walk from Ibrox Park, so still a big fucking change from the Catholic testament to bad managerial decisions up at Loch Lomond.

Glasgow itself is nothing short of apocalyptic. Soot-blackened tenement blocks line cracked asphalt while rotting wood boards up abandoned storefronts. Here and there, a pile of rubble interrupts the line of dark façades, and Jamie’s never sure if that means someone tore down a building and didn’t have the funds to rebuild, or if part of the city simply preceded the rest and collapsed into the black hole of poverty that’s engulfing the township. Kids roam the streets, grubby fingers clutching half-deflated footballs. There’s a dumpster fire on every corner. And, of course, junkies everywhere.

They’re the ones the seminarians are supposed to be helping. About time someone did.

Nine months in, they come across a dead one. They find him slumped against a brick wall near where the hookers they’re supposed to be bringing the good word to are picking up punters. Jamie’s seen dead folk before, but old people dying in hospitals and asking for last rites is different from junkies dying in the street—especially when they do it right next to their traitor friends blithely continuing the good work of selling their bodies in order to poison them.

He shouts at them, rains fire and brimstone, because _someone_ has to make sure they don’t end up like their friend. What do you think will happen, he wants to know, when on Judgment Day He asks you why you thought it was all right to live in immorality, and you have to say it was because you were too weak to resist the temptation of a needle? _Hell_ , that’s what’ll happen, and that’s not a joke, that’s not a euphemism. It’s eternal fucking torture forever after, and if you think the Gorbals are bad, you have _no idea_ what’s coming your way.

They don’t fucking listen, and before long, they rot into formation like a herd of stray cats. Let them come at him, he thinks. He’ll take them, every single scrawny abomination in the eyes of the Almighty God. Their fucking knives will splinter on the Lord’s Will, his righteous fucking armour. But Frankie’s pulling on his arm, so instead of starting a _bellum sacrum_ , Jamie is dragged down the street and into an alleyway.

“Fuck—Frankie, let—Frankie, _fuck off_!”

“You fuck off! What do you think you’re doing, getting us bloody killed?”

“They just let him sit there!” It makes his gorge rise, makes his chest hurt. “He’s got a _family_ somewhere!”

“Yeah, well, so do I, you massive psycho dipshit!”

They postpone the argument to find a constable, report the dead junkie, and head back to Merrylee House. Frankie’s no less mad when they get there, and calls him a fucking psychopath.

“Because I care when there’s dead people lying around in the streets? I think you got it the wrong way ‘round, mate.”

“Jesus Christ,” Frankie huffs, and for a moment looks like Father Kennian. “Find someone else to tag-team you. Fucking Genghis Khan in a cassock; I’m not going anywhere with you ever again.”

He slams his door in Jamie’s face, and Jamie’s left wondering why a man who remains indifferent in the face of pointlessly wasted life would ever choose the vocation of priesthood.

\------

It’s two days later when he's pulled out of morning prayer and marched to Father Kennian’s chamber. He doesn’t know why until Father Kennian slaps a newspaper in front of him and points to an article on page four.

**_Did Catholic “Helping Hand” Cost a Glasgow Life?_ **

It’s a short article, but what it lacks in length it packs in punch. Somehow, the wretched hack found out about the incident with the junkie, and he manages to argue rather convincingly that taking a harsh tone with them, telling them not to abort their children or inject poison into their veins, will drive them to OD and die. He’s blaming Jamie for the dead kid, but that makes no fucking sense, because the dead kid was dead when Jamie got there.

“What the f—” He swallows the word; Father Kennian is no fan of cussing. “Father, I have no clue what this guy’s on about.”

Father Kennian’s a big bloke, broad shoulders straining his robes, a ring of white hair circling his scalp like a halo. His hands are big and harder than they look, and right now they’re balled to fists. He looks _really fucking mad_.

“You miserable half-life, of course you don’t.” The newspaper is snatched out of his hands. “Your mother dropped you on your head as a child, obviously, but even so, what’s wrong with you? How did you not even _think_ to report this?”

“I did report it! Frankie and me, we told the police about the dead guy.”

“To me! You have an altercation with members of the community, you come to me, and you tell _me_ about it. You’re a representative of the Church! A _deplorable_ one, apparently!”

That stings. “None of what’s in the article is true,” Jamie says, but the paper’s got it black on white, hard facts as written word tends to be. “I didnae fucking _kill_ —”

“Don’t you _dare_ take that tone with me.” Father Kennian’s on his feet, leaning over him like a menacing church gargoyle. “I’m not a seminarian, James. I’m an ordained priest of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, and I’m telling you that your behaviour was _grossly_ irresponsible. What do you think an article like this does to a soul already teetering on the edge? If they think we’re killing them, do you _really_ think they’ll trust us?”

“Junkies don’t read the papers, Father.”

It’s nothing but the truth, but it earns him the righteous wrath of the Holy Roman Catholic Church at top volume. Apparently, he’s not only to blame for the one dead junkie, but for any junkie losing his life in the streets of Glasgow, and for every unborn baby scraped out of his mother’s womb, because the Church is the last line of defence against the onslaught of moral corruption that’s ravaging this day and age, and Jamie’s the weakest link that will make it all come down until Glasgow and Edinburgh become the Sodom and Gomorrah of the 20th century.

Thing is, he doesn’t even fucking disagree. What he’s seen of Glasgow, it’s got to be on par with Gomorrah at the height of its sinful existence. That’s what he was trying to tell the junkies. Get your shit together, or get to eternal damnation. But there’s no protesting the Holy Wrath of Father Kennian. Quite right, too. The Father speaks with the voice of the Church, after all.

It ends with Jamie in his cell, barred from all meals except supper, all services except morning prayer, and required to keep a vow of silence until further notice. It will give him time for contemplation, Father Kennian spits, and he’s right—the next few days, Jamie contemplates a whole fucking lot. He contemplates that there’s a great many more hours in the day than needed, especially when you’re stuck in a tiny, bare room with no windows. He contemplates Psalm 32, which is about guilt: _when I kept silent, my bones wasted away_. He contemplates that he _is_ guilty of everything he stands accused of—must be, if Father Kennian says so—and how many years in purgatory a town full of dead junkies and aborted babies will add up to.

He also contemplates that newspapers don’t just fucking appear out of nowhere. They’re written by someone. If he finds the particular someone who wrote this particular article, he may get some clarity as to how the _fuck_ it’s supposed to be his fault when junkies top themselves.

He’s not protesting it. He just wants to understand. _Blessed is the man in whose spirit is no deceit_.

\------

They let him out after a week. First chance he gets, he makes his way into the city proper.

He’s got a copy of the newspaper, found for him in the backroom bin by the corner shop bloke. It’s the _Evening Times_ , whose offices are in 195 Albion Street, and the offending article was written by one Malcolm Tucker.

Right fitting name, that, just off by one letter.

195 Albion Street is a fuck-off colossus of a building, black glass panes covering its shiny façade. The area it’s in is nice, nothing like Govan or any of the other bumholes spewed up and forgotten by the Industrial Era that Jamie usually frequents. Walking down the wide streets past the shops, most of which aren’t even abandoned, you could almost think Glasgow a nice city.

It’s only when he’s standing in front of the building that Jamie realises he doesn’t even know what the journo cunt looks like. But that’s what receptionists are for.

Women, Jamie has to admit, are still a wee bit terrifying. Up in Cardross, there’d simply been none—even the laundry was done by the seminarians, one of many ways to keep a gang of fifty boys and young men occupied. Glasgow’s brought with it the presence of more than the occasional female in Jamie’s life—a lot of them of the hooker variety, too, in skimpy skirts and tiny, see-through blouses.

The receptionist’s blouse is reassuringly opaque, but her make-up is a fucking sight, garish pink lips and dramatic, smoked-up eyes. Jamie does what he’s learned yields the best results; leans his elbows on the counter, shows his teeth, and makes sure his hair doesn’t lie flat. Frankie’s told him that his flirting’s so dirty it’s going to get him kicked out of seminary, but Jamie figures that as long as it’s no more than that, they can’t come after him. He’s seen Father Kennian do it, after all.

He’s told that all he’s got to do is keep an eye out for the Dustin Hoffman look-alike. You know, the bloke from that film about the American journalists with the spy in the garage and the flower pot. Young, sort of a wiry type, lots of dark hair. Always wears this brown jacket. She thinks he’s _trying_ to look like Hoffman, but he’d never admit it. Bit of a chip on his shoulder, Jamie’ll know what she means when he speaks to him.

He takes position in the empty lot across the street. Employees start leaving around five, but by the time he spots someone fitting the description the receptionist gave him, it’s past eight, and he’s smoked every last fag he had on him.

“Oi!” He jogs across the street; then speeds up because the guy in the dark jacket does. “ _Oi_! You there!”

“Fuck off!” Spat over one shoulder, it sounds more like a reptilian hiss than anything. Jamie grabs the guy’s arm.

“Malcolm Tucker? From the _Evening Times_?”

“ _Fuck_ —” The guy’s as scrawny as he looks and weighs next to nothing, so what Jamie meant as an emphatic but polite tug sends him stumbling, dark mop of hair flying. He grabs his own arm, shoulders coming up as he eyes Jamie with equal measures of hatred and trepidation. “Who the fuck wants to know?”

“You _are_. People never say that when they’re not—whoever.” Irritation mixes with the other expressions on the guy’s face. Seeing the contempt in his eyes, suddenly Jamie’s mad enough to go in for another shove. “You miserable fuck! It’s because of _you_ that I spent last week talking to nobody but meself in my own fucking head!”

Tucker catches himself on the wall, leaves a handprint in the layer of dirt reaching up to the first floor. He cusses under his breath and flaps his smudged fingers like a flustered pigeon. “Stop fucking _pushing_ me!”

Jamie’s mad, but Jamie’s also getting the impression that if he does anything more than push this guy a little, he’ll splinter like a cracked pint glass in the cold. So instead, he throws up his hands. “Well, stop publishing lies and slander about the Church, then. Don’t you have any respect?”

The man’s thin lips pull back into what’s probably a smile, but mostly just makes Jamie feel like he’s being prompted to give a dental exam. “Oh, you’re from the _Church_. Who are you, their fucking attack dog? Do they keep you in the shed and bring you out when some heathen’s throat needs shredding?”

“I’m a seminarian, all right? St Peter’s Seminary down in Newlands; we’re trying to _help_ all of you sad sacks in this busted wreck of a city.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Tucker straightens up. “You’re the left footer who threw up a stink down in Adelphi Street. Hey, mate,” and he holds up his palms, “I just write what my sources tell me.”

“Yeah, well, your sources aren’t worth shite, then.” The journo hack’s menacing glee makes Jamie feel wrong-footed. He’s not demonstrating the appropriate intimidation at being pushed around; instead, he almost seems to be enjoying it. It’s fucking _weird_. “Aren’t you newspaper types supposed to, what, get both sides of the story? I don’t remember you getting my story, I don’t remember you speaking to _me_ about it.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

It’s like being offered fire insurance by a convicted arsonist, and Jamie hesitates. One thing he’s sure of, though—in a physical fight, he’d win. Should things get out of hand, all he has to do is start one. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d fucking like to talk about it.”

“All right, then.” Malcolm leads them back to the press building. “Step into my office.”

\------

The lad’s name is Jamie, and in the harsh lights of the office he looks about twelve. The way he talks, he seems to truly believe that the Church is doing God’s work, that prayer heals heroin addiction, and that Hell is a real place filled with the burning bodies of unrepentant sinners.

He gets all glassy-eyed when Malcolm tells him the dead junkie’s name, and asks if the police found his family. His mam, Malcolm tells him after checking his notes, she came in eventually to ID the body. Jamie says he hopes she’s got someone to support her in this trying time, and he sounds so genuine that Malcolm quickly changes the subject.

Turns out Jamie is here because the article got him into trouble at the seminary, and he’s asking the ever-poignant question after the guilt of the individual. How is it Jamie’s fault that Tommy Barron died? How can Malcolm blame the Church for Tommy, and for everything else that’s going on in Glasgow’s streets? The Church is trying to _help_.

Malcolm starts to regret inviting him in. The last thing he’s ever wanted is to serve as a fucking moral authority for Catholic teenagers. But this is one of the big things that’s wrong in the world, the societal fallacy of relying on an archaic, spiritual institution for things the state should be providing, thereby giving it power it shouldn’t have in the age of secularism, and allowing the state to get away with things they should be held accountable for.

Trying to explain this to Jamie is like trying to explain gravity to a cat. His beliefs in the Catholic teachings are so brutally literal that it takes Malcolm some serious mental acrobatics to understand where he’s even coming from. If the Church is at fault, then _he_ is at fault, Jamie argues, and he can’t be at fault because Tommy was dead before he even got there. His big blue eyes glaze over when Malcolm tries to explain the complex relationship between systemic failures and individual responsibility; it’s clearly beyond anything Jamie’s tiny Catholic mind has ever contemplated.

He’s nothing if not persistent, though, and doggedly insists on his point: the article, even just the headline, made a direct connection of guilt between Tommy’s death and Jamie, and that _makes no fucking sense_ , because Tommy was dead when Jamie got there. Eventually, Malcolm has no choice but to concede. He does it through gritted teeth and with hatred in his eyes, but how do you argue against such bull-headed consistency?

Jamie doesn’t gloat; he doesn’t even look smug. If anything, he seems relieved. “So you’re saying it wasn’t my fault?”

“I’m saying that you’re not directly to blame for Tommy Barron’s death.”

“How’s that different from what I said?”

“It’s—” Oh, fuck it. “All right, it wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t.”

“No.”

“And you actually mean that?”

“Jesus Christ,” and a glance at the clock tells him that they’ve been going back and forth about this for near an hour. “How _old_ are you?”

Jamie pouts. “Eighteen.”

“Right.” He looks younger, all blue-eyed innocence, but now Malcolm is noticing a hint of dark stubble along his jawline that puts him in a slightly older age bracket. Still a fucking child, though. “And they’ve got you out there dealing with junkies? On your own?”

“Not on my own. I was with Frankie.”

“Is he an actual adult?”

“Screw you, prick. He’s older than us, but I’m _senior_. He’s only been with the seminary for about two years.”

That takes a moment to process. “You’ve been with them for how long?”

“Five years.” He looks so proud, white teeth flashing. “Couple more, and I’ll be ordained. About time.”

It doesn’t happen often that Malcolm is at a loss for words, but this, he has no reaction to. Jamie takes no note of his paralysis; just shifts and throws a glance at the clock. “Shite.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He gets to his feet, gathers up his jacket. “Got to get back, is all. Thanks for seeing me.” The hand he holds out has dirt gathered under the nails. “Don’t go spreading any more lies about the Church, okay? For a soul teetering on the whatsit, the edge, an article like that could be the last thing they need to go over.”

“Teetering on the—” Malcolm doesn’t finish, just gets up as well and, even though he should know better, grabs a card off his desk. “Here. Just in case you ever need advice not based on fucking Catholic dogmatism.”

Jamie laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, but he does pocket the card. “All right. If _you_ need advice about what to do about your eternal soul, you know where to find us.”

He does indeed; places he’s sworn to never visit again as long as he lives. He walks Jamie out and watches him amble off into the dusk settling over Glasgow like a shock blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoyed it? [Reblog on Tumblr](http://t-eyla.tumblr.com/post/161631797673)! Or just stop by to say hi; I'm always up for chatting with fellow fandom folk. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've noticed _how long_ a week actually is, and have decided to switch to bi-weekly updates. Cue impatient author; here goes Chapter 2. If you'd like some visuals to go with the words, check out [my Tumblr](http://t-eyla.tumblr.com/post/161668751443), where I'm posting some of the photos I found while researching.
> 
> Thank you for all your comments, clicks, and kudos. Every single one is valued and appreciated and cooed over. I'm very happy that the story seems to resonate!
> 
> Enjoy, and do share your thoughts when you're done. :)

Jamie keeps living his life, with one alteration: he now reads the papers.

First, it’s just the _Evening Times_ , which he scans for articles written by Malcolm Tucker. Seems like there’s one in every issue, black ink on cheap paper brimming with fervour, wit, and hatred. Tucker writes about an asbestos scare at the local primary, a jobs demo at Woolies, a union protest at the closure of another Kinning Park factory, Healey’s Pyrrhic victory against Tony Benn in Brighton, the three percent limit on public sector pay rises, the police killings of two INLA members in Armagh, and the disintegration of Great Britain under the thumb of Mrs Margaret Thatcher.

Half the time, Jamie doesn’t have a clue what he’s on about; then he starts putting the pieces together. He expands his horizons, grabs a copy of the _Herald_ and the _Mirror_ along with the _Evening Times_ , sometimes even the _Guardian_. The Tories, he concludes, are the Seven-Headed Dragon, aiming to devour the innocence of Britain’s working class. Labour is the Lamb on Mount Zion, gathering forces to cast the Dragon into the Lake of Fire and restore the Kingdom of Heaven, where everyone has a job and nobody will have to use narcotics to dull the pain of consciousness.

The Church isn’t even in any of this, but surely, Jamie thinks, she must be on the side of the Lamb. She’s a force for good, after all. It takes some digging, but once he starts reading things not selected by the discerning eye of the _Scottish Catholic Observer_ ’s chief editor, the real trouble starts.

The Church is not, as he discovers, falling in line with the Lamb. She’s not really with the Dragon, either, but it doesn’t matter, because there are many aspects of the wicked, but only the Lamb’s one hundred and forty-four thousand are truly righteous. It’s the Lamb or the Lake of Fire, so what in the name of the Almighty Saviour does the Church think she’s playing at?

He wants to ask Father Kennian about it, but before he can do so, the Father summons him to his chamber to speak some choice words about Jamie wasting all his time reading up on worldly matters. Jamie doesn’t understand what he’s _supposed_ to be reading up on; to him, it seems, the priority of the Church _should_ be worldly matters. There’s nothing more worldly than the spiritual health of the world’s inhabitants, right? Father Kennian disagrees, vehemently so, and Jamie sees his allowance suspended until, as the Father tells him, Jamie learns not to spend it on lies and false prophecies.

At least he’s not spending it on junkie prozzers, Jamie snaps. It’s not un-fucking-heard of in the seminary.

That gets him another week in solitary, which he spends writing angry letters-to-the-editor too riddled with expletives for the _Evening Times_ to print. Not that he was ever going to send them; no allowance means no postage. Not being allowed to speak just fucking _gets_ to him.

After that, things quiet down for a while. He keeps reading the papers (still no allowance, but the corner shop bloke lets him have the day-old ones for free) and learns to keep them out of sight. Like fucking tittie pictures, he thinks as he stuffs them under his mattress, and then worries if what he’s doing is sinful. They’re _not_ tittie pictures, unless you count the ads with the birds in low-cut blouses. They’re lies and false prophecies, though, according to Father Kennian. Besides, he’s lying in confession and defying a direct order from a priest, which means he’s defying the Church.

That’s definitely sinful. No way around that.

It twists and writhes in the back of his head, keeps him up at night, makes him irritable during the day until he’s on permanent housework duty because he can’t find anyone who’ll go out with him anymore. Alone with his thoughts, he either thinks about the eternity of being bumraped by Satan that he’s most likely in for, or about the things he reads in the papers, and how _angry_ it makes him that the Church’s never mentioned them.

Case in point: according to the _Herald_ , there’s a significant disparity between the post-natal care resources in Blackhill and Bearsden. Now, Jamie’s told more than one pregnant Blackhill ned that an abortion would damn her soul for eternity. He’s never told that to anyone in Bearsden. He’s never even been to Bearsden. White collar kids get themselves knocked up just as much as blue collar ones do, but somehow, the Church’s only sending him to preach to the ones whose babies are likely to die of lack of hospital resources, a few days after birth, probably without being baptised. Abortion would damn the mother, birth damns the child, what’s the fucking _point_?

He always comes back to the _Evening Times_ and the soothing rage of Tucker’s writing. It’s like an addiction; he can’t get enough, and remembers the feeling from listening to Father Duncan’s sermons up in Cardross—words that paint a picture of contrast, sharp lines between light and dark. Judgment Day will come. The Lamb will slay the Dragon. Thatcher’s reign will end. Forever, Amen.

\------

Around Jamie’s nineteenth birthday, His Holiness Pope John Paul II promulgates the new _Codex Iuris Canonici_. It’s to take legal effect later that year, and Jamie finds himself seeking out Father Kennian’s chamber of his own volition for once. He doesn’t expect the conversation to be pleasant— Father Kennian, never a big Jamie fan, at this point straight-up hates him. But what’s that saying? Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

The new CIC introduces a minimum age to receive the Sacrament of Holy Orders; twenty-three years for the transitional diaconate. He’s seen what’s been happening to the seminary; new pupils are few and far between, and none of them anywhere near as young as he was. For them, he tells Father Kennian, it makes sense to establish a bar, make sure they know they can’t join and expect to receive ordination rites within a couple of years.

But for him, the new CIC means another four years on top of the seven he’s already invested. Another four years of not even holding the title of deacon, and it’s not that he’s asking to be ordained presbyter anytime soon; he’s fine with the diaconate until the Church decides he’s ready for more. But he’s _done_ with seminary. Enough is enough.

Father Kennian watches him, a quiet gaze over folded hands, as Jamie makes his point. He’s done all the classes, some of them twice, and he’s passed them. He knows all the liturgies; he even understands the Latin. He’s read all the philosophers and theologians and patrologists, he’s walked the streets of Glasgow and lent a helping hand to the lost and the poor. He _believes_ in the Church. All he’s asking is for the Church to return a little bit of that faith. He knows the Father hasn’t been considering him for ordination just yet, but since it’s either now or not at all for the next four years, he’s asking for a chance. _Please_.

Father Kennian answers with a name: Saint Thomas of Aquino. If you’ve read all the philosophers, James, you should know what his _Summa Theologiae_ says about Pride.

Of course Jamie knows. An arse tattoo of the stipulation must be a secret admission criterion for seminary instructors, considering how much it comes up in class.

“‘The root of Pride is found to consist in man not being subject to God and His rule’,” the Father quotes, and if Jamie didn’t know better, he’d say he’s enjoying this. “As you’re such an expert, go on and tell me, who upholds God’s rule on Earth?”

“The clergy. You do, Father.”

“That’s right. _I_ do. And you, James, are you part of the clergy?”

“No, Father, that’s what I’m trying to—”

“That’s _right_ ,” Father Kennian cuts him off. He leans in a little closer. His eyes are the colour of smoke from the Ravenscraig towers. “You’re not, because the Holy Roman Catholic Church hasn’t called upon you yet to receive Holy Orders. In fact, our Most Holy Father in Rome just issued a decree that you are not to receive them until you’ve reached _maturitas_ at age twenty-three.”

Jamie has no reply. He’s terrified to feel something like hatred raise its ugly head. Jamie loves the Church, but he doesn’t love Father Kennian, and that should be impossible, because according to Catholic teachings, Father Kennian and the Church are one and the same.

“Are you the Serpent, James?” It’s a hiss, much like the Serpent the Father is talking about. “Are you in my Garden, whispering in my ear to taste the Forbidden Fruit of Pride?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “ _no_ , Father, I just don’t think I need another four years—”

“You’re not to think!” Father Kennian’s voice booms like a thunderclap, six feet of Catholic priest rising over Jamie in robes of gold and crimson. “You’re not to think, you’re not to _doubt_. Father Duncan sent you down from Cardross with great promise, but all you’ve shown me is disobedience and blasphemy. Your pridefulness puts Nebuchadnezzar’s to shame. You are not ready to be accepted into the clergy; if it’s up to me, you’ll never be!”

But it _is_ up to you, Jamie thinks. Even under the new CIC, the final approval of _maturitas_ lies with the head of the seminary.

He gets to his feet, slowly, careful to keep the chair from scraping over the floor. It’s as if any unexpected sound might set off the active volcano that’s just revealed itself across from him. “Father, are you throwing me out?”

Father Kennian’s face wavers, and Jamie’s hit with the realisation that he’s afraid to follow through. This ordained priest of the Holy Roman Catholic Church is afraid to chuck a seminarian out on his arse even though he thinks he’s not fit for the job. Contempt mingles with the hatred, and it makes no fucking sense, but the Father’s next words make him angrier than anything he’s heard so far.

“You may remain. The Church is harsh but just. You may continue your studies until you’re called upon to receive Holy Orders. You may not _speak_. You may not _mingle_. You are to prove that your mind is pure and obedient before you are to interact with the other seminarians again. I will not abandon you, but neither will I let you poison us.”

And with that, it’s over. Jamie returns to his cell. He keeps the imposed vow of silence as he tears the wooden crucifix off of the wall above his cot and grinds his heel into it. The Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ’s head snaps off and rolls away under the desk.

He sends an apology up to whoever’s listening as he pulls an old backpack out from under his cot. He didn’t mean to hurt the Redeemer of the World, he just hates Father Kennian, and the seminary, and everything about the Church so much that it’s making him feel like he’s suffocating in a room full of air.

He takes his rosary and his bible, as well as the few pieces of civilian clothing he owns. He takes every last paper hidden in the room, an armful of lies and false prophecies. He leaves the broken crucifix, his cassock, and the framed icon depicting the stoning of James the Just that Father Duncan gave him as a Confirmation gift.

Halfway down the street, he dumps the papers in a bin. They’re really fucking heavy.

\------

Malcolm spends his last few hours at the _Evening Times_ cleaning out his desk.

It’s amazing, the amount of paper flotsam you amass over the years. His drawers are like an archaeological dig site, tracing the past years through notes, phone numbers, hand-scribbled article drafts, photos, broken pens, and dried-up bottles of whiteout. And these are just the things he didn’t file.

There’s the occasional personal item, but they’re few and far between. There’s a note from Sarah, at least four years old, with a gaggle of hearts drawn at the bottom. It goes into the bin without a second glance. Been there, done that, had that conversation. She doesn’t want to leave her position at the University of Edinburgh, and she wasn’t sure anymore about getting married, anyway. So that’s that. Malcolm tries to ignore the unsettling awareness of his own relief.

There’s an uncomfortable but heartfelt hug from Susan, a set of handshakes all around, and then Malcolm leaves, promising that he’ll be back for a visit. Everyone knows it’s a lie.

\------

Arms full of paper debris, Tucker doesn’t notice Jamie, who sits two rows behind him on the bus and follows him when he gets off. When he enters a block of flats, Jamie hangs back and gives the man some space.

It’s not that he’s being considerate; it’s just that he feels like a film roll that nobody’s remembered to turn off: idly spinning, end of the reel flapping, image a flickering blank. There’s one thing his mind keeps repeating like a broken record: Tucker doesn’t know him. He knows Tucker, he’s read every single word Malcolm Tucker’s published in the past two years, but Tucker’s only met him once.

He did give him his card, though. It’s tucked into Jamie’s otherwise empty wallet; _in case you ever need advice_.

Well, ‘in case’ has happened. So eventually, Jamie rings the doorbell.

He has to ring _all_ the doorbells until he’s finally buzzed in, and then has to climb up to the fourth floor until he spots Tucker’s name on the wall. He’s been knocking for a while when the door opens.

“What the _fuck_ do you want?”

“Fucking _finally_.”

They stare at each other across the threshold.

For Jamie, it’s weird. He feels like he knows this man, certainly knows his political thoughts and opinions, his writing quirks, the fact that he’s not been on holiday for two years (or if he was, he was still writing articles at the time). But standing here, he realises that the familiar image of Tucker in his mind is no more than a photograph taken one dusky evening two years ago. Now that he’s got the flesh-and-blood version in front of him, he realises that photos are, well, two-dimensional.

Tucker looks like it’s weird for him, too. The man looks fucking _alarmed_.

“Hey,” says Jamie.

“What’re you doing here?”

“I’m looking for advice.”

“All right. Again, what are you doing here?”

“You said if I needed advice, I should come to you.”

Tucker’s eyebrows squeeze together; then he takes the step across the threshold. That’s not good, thinks Jamie, that’s the move of a man who wants to avoid the conversation moving into his living space. Sure enough, Tucker pulls the door half-shut. “I said you should _call_ me. In fact, I didn't even say that much, I just gave you my card. Besides, that was _two years_ ago. Weren’t you going to be a fucking priest by now?”

“I was, yeah. Don’t think I’m going t’ be.” He tries to catch a glimpse of Tucker’s flat. Does the man have any interests besides writing and politics? “Look, I get how this is a bit weird. But I’ve got nowhere else to go.” Tucker just stares, and Jamie starts to feel a bit desperate. “I’ll do your fucking dishes or summat. _Please_.”

It’s like the word knocks something loose; Tucker breaks eye contact and huffs. “ _Fine_.” The door swings back open. “You get an hour.”

It’s a decently sized flat, but it’s completely empty, and not in a modern control-your-clutter sort of way. The only things in it are a bare dresser and a bed. The lightbulb is naked.

“I’m moving.”

Jamie’s surprise must’ve shown on his face. He follows Tucker over to the kitchenette—also bare, save for a kettle that Tucker fills with water. “Where to?”

“None-Of-Your-Fucking-Business. Nice town in Lancashire.” He pulls two banged-up cups from a cupboard and plonks them on the counter. “Your hour’s a-wasting. Start talking.”

This is where Jamie realises he has no idea what to say. He knows why he came here—because Tucker’s articles make sense, because his words are like Father Duncan’s, soothing and straightforward. But outside of asking Tucker to give him a new set of commandments to follow now that he’s lost the guidance of the Faith, he doesn’t know what he’s here for.

The kettle’s switched off and Tucker’s poured the tea by the time Jamie’s put together an answer. He takes the cup and meets suspicious eyes.

“What do I have to do to get to do what you do?”

\------

Malcolm drinks his tea and considers his reply.

Jamie’s the _last_ thing Malcolm needs tonight, and yet, just like last time, the doe-eyed fucker somehow snuck and bullied his way past Malcolm’s battlements. It’d be pretty fucking alarming if Malcolm didn’t know that he’s getting out no later than tomorrow, leaving Glasgow behind for good—and with it all doe-eyed, illegally half-grown Catholics, present company included.

Besides, he’s sort of funny. There has never been anyone more wide-eyed and earnest about wanting to change careers from Catholic priest to political journalist.

“You know about politics?”

“Yeah. I mean. I know everything you do.”

Oh. “Is that so?” Fucking _hilarious_.

“I’ve been reading your articles,” Jamie says, patting his pockets as if to pull out a certificate that confirms his claim. “Yours, and other folks’, but I like yours best. And Leslie Forbes’ in the _Herald_ , she’s got some good stuff.”

“How d’you know Leslie Forbes’s a she?”

“What?”

“Could be a bloke.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bloke.”

Malcolm’s got to give him that one, sniffing out the single one political _journalistesse_ in Glasgow. “You don’t just sort of stumble and fall into political journalism. Have you ever even written anything?”

“Le’ers.” Jamie shrugs. “Couple of sermons. Practice ones.”

Fucking _sermons_. Save him. “Got any of them on you?” Once Malcolm’s read a sample of what will undoubtedly be lowest-level, grammar-mistakes-riddled rhetoric belonging in the Middle Ages, he’ll be able to tell Jamie in no uncertain terms to forget about his career change. Cue Jamie overcoming whatever crisis of faith he’s going through; cue Malcolm never having to deal with him again.

Jamie spoils his plan by shaking his head. “Left it all at Merrylee House. Like fuck am I going back there.”

 _Don’t fucking ask_. It’s not like he even cares, and he’s _leaving_ tomorrow. “You’re serious about quitting?”

“Would I be here if I wasn’t?”

Hackles raised, like a terrier at the sight of the postman. _Fuck_. “How the fuck should I know? Contrary to what you seem to think, we are not best friends. I don’t fucking know you.”

“Yeah, well, I _wouldn’t_ be. Now you know.”

The pout makes him look fucking twelve, but there’s something older in his eyes, and Malcolm tries to shake memories of when he was wee, squeezed in between Annie and his dad in the pews and trying to figure out what the _fuck_ he was missing that everyone else seemed to be getting. “What about your eternal soul? Seemed pretty important to you last time.”

“Don’t need to be a priest to save my eternal fucking soul. Have you ever even _been_ to church?”

“Sorry.” Malcolm spins his finger next to his temple. “Selective fucking amnesia. It’s a defence mechanism.”

“Why is it you’ve got such a hard-on for hating the Church? It’s all you were on about last time, too. Someone fucking bad-touch you at your Holy Communion?”

“ _Fuck_ you.” He has half a mind to throw Jamie out; if there’s one thing he absolutely doesn’t need to talk about tonight (or ever), it’s his personal relationship to the Faith. “I’m not the fucking lapsed seminarian here. Last time you came to me, you got on my case because I said mean things about your church. Now you’re standing in my flat telling me you want to come over to the dark side. You do realise that doing what I do involves thinking critically about established societal institutions, which the Church is fucking one of?”

“Fuck—you think I’d fucking _be here_ if I hadn’t—if I’d not _done that_? _Fuck_!”

The kid’s voice fucking _breaks_ , and suddenly Malcolm’s feeling way too many things for the little he knows about him. He buries his face in his cup, gives Jamie a moment to reassemble his dignity. Then he peers over the rim. “Stay or go. But if you stay, you owe me an explanation.”

“All right. All right.” Jamie wipes his palms on his trousers. “Shite. Fucking—” Deep breath. “You got a drink? I could do with a fucking drink.”

He gets the Catholic a drink. They end up on the floor, Jamie with his back against the bed, Malcolm across from him against the wall. Jamie stares at his feet and talks while turning the cup in his hands.

He’s from fucking Motherwell, which figures, and spent much of his formative teenage years shut away in an overblown post-war feat of architecture somewhere in the Strathclyde woods. Jamie talks about it like it’s Heaven on Earth, but to Malcolm, it sounds more like prison: a rigid schedule structuring days of humble repentance and manual labour; classes carefully designed to support the institution’s dogmata; no outside contact to anyone, especially not to the opposite sex. He knows what’s become of that building these days; it’s a drug rehab centre that can’t keep out of the papers due to its health-hazardous insulation and prohibitive maintenance costs. So far, so ironic.

The way he tells it, for Jamie everything went to shit when he came to Glasgow and learned of the existence of a world outside of the Church. Malcolm rolls his eyes; as far as he’s concerned, ignorance is no excuse for stupidity. Unlike the Church, though, Jamie didn’t take the high-and-mighty road of denial. He started asking questions, and got himself into trouble for it.

This, Malcolm has sympathy for. It’s pretty much the story of his life.

“Thing is, the Church houses the divine Spirit on Earth.” Jamie’s clutching his drink, and his tension has abated to be replaced by a low-key sort of desperation Malcolm finds deeply unsettling. “It’s a long fucking story, but if you come right down to it, she’s an earthly embodiment of an aspect of the Trinity. She’s God, she’s fucking infallible. You think anything the Church’s ever done is contradictory or wrong, you’re the one who’s fucking wrong, and also probably a moron.”

It takes all of Malcolm’s self-restraint not to answer with a rant. Sarcasm’s the next best thing. “No need for self-flagellation; you’re among fellow heathens.”

It earns him a blood-shot glare. “I’ve always believed in the Church. If I’m a moron, then all right, I’m a fucking moron. But if all the Church’s got is a fucking _vow of silence_ to shut folk up asking questions, then I don’t think I’m the fucking moron. I think if you’re trying to shut folk up asking questions, you’re trying to sell something that’s not the fucking truth.”

It’s like this grubby Motherwell reject is putting words to a betrayal Malcolm’s felt in his heart his entire life. That’s weird, because he’s never bought into the teachings of the Church. But perhaps this isn’t even about religion. Perhaps this is just about the realisation that trust is a tool of oppression sold as a staple of love.

“Let me tell you something.” Jamie came here for advice, so advice he is going to get. “There is no such thing as the fucking truth. All right? Truth is like fucking statistics; there’s a minuscule chance that you’ll get struck by lightning, well, you’re still going to get fucking struck by lightning, because that’s just _life_. Anything is true, at any given time, given the right perspective and circumstance. So anyone’s who’s selling the truth is in reality selling so many lies wrapped in a load of bullshit.”

Jamie eyes him through a squint. “But that’s what you do, isn’t it? Sell the truth, in your paper. You sound awfully fucking sure for someone who thinks he’s telling anything but the truth.”

“I’ll sell any fucking truth that will get people to do what’s right.”

He’s never told anyone this. It feels wrong to, like something he can’t take back. Jamie knowing means Jamie holding power over him, and that feels wrong, but it also feels fucking exhilarating, and he’s not going to examine that notion any more closely, so fuck the fuck off.

“What’s right, then?” Jamie’s oblivious. If Malcolm’s lucky, he’ll stay that way. “If there’s no truth, how do you know what’s right?”

“Common fucking sense.” They’re back on safe terrain; this is no secret. “Everything’s not that complicated. If it is, it’s only because someone wants it to be for their own fucking benefit.”

It’s like he can see Jamie’s gears spinning under that shaggy mess of dirty curls. “Power,” he says eventually. “Money. Fucking—summer house in Cornwall. Shit.” He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “People are just fucking shit, aren’t they?”

“Most of them. Not all.” It’s a more generous estimation than he’d venture on any other day, but Jamie looks so fucking _crushed_. Malcolm hates how easily this kid brings out Mother Teresa in him. “Look, you got anywhere to go? What about your family?”

Jamie shakes his head. “It’s just me mum. She’s got enough on her hands.”

Shit. Jamie’s options are _limited_. “You could go back to the seminary.”

“Fuck that. I am never going back in my life. I’d rather die.”

“Well, you just fucking might.”

“Good.”

He’s still holding the cup, and when Jamie says that, he throws it. Jamie ducks away. The cup bounces off the mattress and drops to the floor with a noise loud enough to wake up the entire block of flats. Malcolm’s too angry to care. “Don’t you _fucking_ talk like that!”

“All right!” At least he’s startled Jamie out of his self-pity. “Calm down. Fuck’s sake.”

That’s all there is, though, and now he’s out of projectiles, so all he’s got is a familiar, seething hatred in his chest. Usually, he’d shout at someone, deservedly or not, but not Jamie. Not right now. _Fuck_.

“So where to _are_ you moving?”

Malcolm can see how imposing a vow of silence would be the worst fucking punishment for Jamie; he doesn’t seem able to stand being quiet for more than thirty seconds. “South. London.”

“Fuck.” Jamie would’ve probably said the same if Malcolm had told him fucking Shanghai. “Not going to be writing for the _Evening Times_ anymore, then?”

“Got a desk at the _Mirror_ starting next week.”

“Right.” He digs his heels into the floor; starts to get up. “I should probably—”

“Sit down, you twat.” Jamie looks genuinely startled, and Malcolm rolls his eyes. “Where are you going to go, sleep with the junkies under Victoria Bridge?”

“You telling me I can stay?”

“Yeah. For the night.” He glances around. The flat’s never been a hospitality stronghold, but right now it’s pathetic. “Take the bed, I wasn’t gonna sleep anyway.”

“Why the fuck not?” Jamie sounds so scandalised that Malcolm doesn’t come up with a good answer right away. Jamie waves a hand at the bed. “It’s a fucking double, there’s space for two.”

“I’m no’—” Shit. “I move about a lot. I’ll kick the shit out of you.”

“I sleep like the dead, it’s no problem. Ye daft cunt, I’m not going to put you out of your bed.”

There’s no arguing after that, and so Malcolm finds himself trapped between the edge of the bed and Jamie, who’s wearing nothing but pants and one of Malcolm’s t-shirts. It’s too tight around the shoulders.

Jamie emits enough body heat to keep a small village warm throughout a Siberian winter. Jamie also, Malcolm discovers after an hour of lying there and staring into the dark, produces tiny soft snores that make him sound like a fucking comatose cat.

He focuses on that and uses it to drown out the panicked chatter in the back of his mind. After what feels like (and probably is) hours, he slips into a restless sleep.

\------

When Jamie wakes up, he’s got his nose pressed into the dip between two bony shoulder blades.

It’s not too bad, really. Malcolm even fucking smells like newspaper, like the whiff of dry wood and ink you get when you flip through a stack of them at the corner shop. Comes from working in a newspaper office, perhaps. The smell’s got to be everywhere.

He rolls onto his back, and he doesn’t mean anything by it, but Malcolm jumps so badly he almost falls out of bed.

“ _Shite_! Sorry, sorry. Just me, Jamie. Remember me?”

Malcolm’s eyes are wide and red-rimmed, and he looks like he’s seen a ghost. “Of course I fucking remember you. Fuck.”

He slams his way into the bathroom, and Jamie doesn’t see him again until he emerges showered and dressed about twenty minutes later. “I need you out of here in ten. I’ve got a train to catch.”

Jamie’s been ready to go for fifteen, dressed in yesterday’s clothes with the rest of his belongings still in his backpack. He grabs it, flings it over his shoulder. “Sure. Thanks for letting me stay.”

Malcolm puts the kettle on. There’s only one cup on the counter, and Jamie can take a hint. Well, sort of. “You going to have a phone in London?”

“Don’t have the number yet. No address, either.”

That’s pretty fucking clear. Jamie tries to ignore the way it smarts. “Right. I’ll just write to the _Mirror_ , then.”

The reply is no more than a non-committal grunt, so Jamie makes his getaway before the situation can get any more awkward.

He’s got nothing better to do, so he waits out of sight and follows Malcolm to the station. The train Malcolm gets on is the Electric Scot service to Euston, bulky and yellow and whizzing along under charged wires.

Jamie leans on the filthy railing of the overpass and watches it disappear on the horizon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being such great and vocal readers; the response so far has been very encouraging! Here's chapter three, and [here's a link to some pictures](http://t-eyla.tumblr.com/post/161898486308) relevant to this chapter that I found while researching.
> 
> Have fun, and let me know what you think! :)

If Jamie had stayed in seminary, he’d have received Holy Orders about a year after Queen immortalise themselves at Wembley Stadium. As it is, that’s around the same time that the District Court of Glasgow sends him up the river for a violation under the Sexual Offences Act.

It’s not that he’s turned hardened criminal, or rapist, for that matter. If he’s honest, he’s not entirely clear on how it happened.

After ditching the Church, he caught a train back to Motherwell. He’s trying to stay away from religious metaphors, but honestly, if Glasgow’s purgatory, Motherwell is Malebolge, evil fucking ditches waiting to devour any unlucky cunt with the misfortune of finding himself there. The utter despondency, his mam’s confused tears, and Father O’Malley’s grizzled glare of holy judgment had Jamie scampering back to Glasgow within a month’s time.

With Malcolm gone, his two spheres of contact in the city were the seminary (wasn’t going to happen), and the Gorbals prostitutes. The latter weren’t exactly happy to see him, but eventually took pity and brought him to a place called Beanie’s. Beanie, a meaty bloke with a grisly scar across one cheek, gave him room and board in exchange for hauling kegs and wiping floors. Once he’d proven himself a hard worker and able to put two words together without tripping over his tongue, he got promoted to serving drinks up front for a small hourly wage.

It wasn’t a bad life. As for sexual offences, there _were_ some women he invited to his tiny room above the pub at the end of his shift, but none of them minded. In fact, the first few more or less pursued _him_ there after learning that he used to be a seminarian. It was a bit frightening, initially, but at this point, Jamie’s discovered that he likes sex. He’s been told he’s a natural, too.

He knew about Beanie’s second income, the other girls that hung around, and the back room where they took the punters. Of course he did. He has eyes, and he’s not so stupid that he doesn’t know that no regular pub would take a reference from a gang of prozzers. Beanie took care of the girls, and when Beanie didn’t (which would happen occasionally; Jamie was grateful for the work, but Beanie sort of reminded him of a meaner Father Kennian), Jamie would help out with whatever came up: bill-dodgers, pushy customers, medical emergencies, babysitting emergencies, family emergencies, emotional emergencies.

Women stopped being terrifying and just became people. Most of them were like him, trying to survive in a shitty environment that wanted you dead—although their environment was usually shittier than his, especially once AIDS became a thing. The papers keep saying it’s the queers who are catching it, but mostly what Jamie’s seen it do is kill poor women and their bairns.

Turns out that what he was doing was assisting in the management of a brothel. That’s a sexual offence they’ll arrest you for. He was just trying to _help_ , Jamie insists. What was he supposed to do, pretend he didn’t see what was going on? His legal advisor rolls his eyes and tells him to just do the six months, and count his blessings that they’re not pushing the unregistered work violation.

Beanie gets a sentence in the terrifying vicinity of seven years, so Jamie does count his blessings and lets them take him to HMP Low Moss.

He doesn’t consider himself particularly fussy about his habitat, but even he can see that Low Moss is not a nice fucking place. A converted RAF camp, it’s entirely makeshift, ramshackle dorms crowded around a flimsy building housing the work hall and kitchens. With thirty men to one of the showers, which are always out of hot, and often enough out of any water, and three hundred men to one canteen laid out for a third of that, any time not spent working or queuing for meals is spent queuing for the facilities.

And of course, everyone here is a criminal. Criminals aren’t known for their polite fucking queuing manners.

Jamie’s all right in a fight, but he’s not top dog by any means, and he’s _young_ , which makes him a preferred target to pick on. He finds allies when he figures out that some of the inmates don’t see a difference between an ex-seminarian and an ordained priest qualified to hear confession. He hears a _lot_ of confessions, hands out Hail Marys and absolutions of sin, and collects a gang of bulky Catholics to shield him from less pious prison mates. It makes him want to write a thank-you note to Father Kennian. Maybe he will when he gets out.

He’s not assaulted. Not like _that_. Others are, one of them by a member of Jamie’s gang. Clocking believers during confession isn’t exactly standard Catholic practice, but he supposes everything is different in prison. He chucks the guy out and tells him that he’s going to have Satan doing his own deed to him for all eternity. Repentance isn’t going to save you, you fucking spineless paedo scum. He’s never seen a grown man shake like that; that’s the Power of the Faith for you.

The kid that the bastard hurt turns into a silent, wide-eyed shadow of himself, and it makes Jamie sick to watch, until the kid finally completes his sentence and leaves.

They start renovations in the southern dorms, and Jamie starts to write things down. Renovations are fucking overdue; the southern dorms haven’t had water for a month, and there’s corrosion creeping up the metal struts that hold up the roof. But the prison’s relocated the men from the uninhabitable dorms to the inhabitable ones, stacking them like sardines on the floors between the bunk beds. There’s a violent altercation every night, when one clumsy cunt steps on another and the only way to settle it is by punching each other in the face until the wardens join the melee and drag the brawlers off.

A transfer from Peterhead suggests a hunger strike, which is one of the better fucking ideas Jamie’s heard. He gets his Catholics to join in, and the entire dorm holds out for a respectable number of days until the weaker-minded ones provoke defeat by starting a riot. It’s shut down in no time, and results in no more than a couple of bloody noses (nobody's good in a fight if they haven't eaten in several days; it's like the first rule of prison, don't hunger strike and riot), but naturally it kills any progress they may have made. On the upside, Jamie gets to eat again.

He’s writing it all down, diary-style, on any piece of paper he can find. At one point, some prick steals his pen. Jamie makes sure he regrets it. He keeps as much of his notes on his person as he can, and everything he can’t carry around, he hides in his mattress. When he’s released, he walks away with four months of neat documentation on the realities of Scottish prisons.

With it, he heads straight to the building in 195 Albion Street where he first met Malcolm.

The _Herald_ won’t see him, though, and neither will the _Evening Times_. He gets a little impatient with the receptionist—this is a good story, it’s an _important_ story, if you’re not going to print this, what _are_ you printing, Maggie Thatcher’s fucking beauty routine?—but he still doesn’t think it’s fair that they bar him from the building. It’s not a fucking drinking establishment, after all.

His money from the job at Beanie’s, together with his earthly belongings (clothes, a toothbrush, some shaving gear), are being held in evidence at the police station. They make him fill out ten different forms, and then they tell him that it’ll take a week to process. All right, he says, all-fucking-right, he’ll just camp out on the plastic chairs in the hall, then, will he? Wearing the same fucking shirt he went to Low Moss in six fucking months ago, smelling like a sewer that a herd of elephants took a dump in. Would that be all right, because he’s not really got any- _fucking_ -where to go, and the money you’re keeping locked in a box behind that fucking counter is the only money in the world that actually belongs to him. He’d go and rob an off-licence, but he’s heard somewhere that the law doesn’t look favourably upon such action.

Turns out all processing means is putting a couple of stamps on the forms and handing him the box. Figures.

The money’s enough to buy him a few days of food and lodging. Alternatively, it’s enough to buy him a bunk on the sleeper train to Euston. One of these would leave him in the exact place he is now, so it’s not a hard fucking choice to make.

The train cabin’s got two bunks and a wash basin. His cabin mate fucks off as soon as they’ve pulled out of the station, which gives Jamie a chance to have a wash, a shave, and a change of clothes with some privacy. He considers using a spare razor blade to chop off the hair that’s falling into his face, but opts for following the siren call of his bunk instead.

The rattle of the cabin’s sliding door jerks him awake. His cabin mate stumbles in, three sheets to the wind, and collapses into the bottom bunk with enough momentum to bring down Livingstone Tower. Minutes later, he’s snoring.

Jamie’s spent the last six months sharing a dorm with fifty other men; a bit of snoring’s not going to bother him. It’s the discrepancy between the familiar ambience and the unfamiliar softness of the sheets, the unexpected presence of a pillow, and the bewildering absence of a perpetual threat on his life that keeps him up.

Also, he’s fucking starving.

In what must be the lounge car, he finds a bored lass yawning behind a kiosk counter. She warms up a sausage roll in exchange for a few coins. He takes it to a compartment between his own car and the next and chews slowly while staring into the darkness rushing by outside.

They must be long past Motherwell. He’s never been this far south.

The sun rises over flat, green hills, and before long, city starts to replace the countryside. It’s brighter than Glasgow, sandstone that actually looks like fucking sand rather than compacted ash. There’s a lot of city to pass through before they finally pull into Euston.

He steps off the train and has no fucking clue where to go.

The station is at least twice the size of Glasgow’s, filled with four times the number of people. If he remembers correctly, this isn’t even London’s only fucking terminal. For a lack of other ideas, he follows the trail of bleary passengers down the platform, and is relieved to find an information desk in the ticketing hall.

A lady tells him in a posh fucking accent that to get to the Daily Mirror Building, he should take the Victoria to Oxford Circus and the Central to Chancery Lane. He’d rather walk, he tells her. She points him to an exit and tells him to head southeast.

After an hour, he comes up to the river. That’s too far south, but it’s still a fucking sight, so he leans on the railing and watches the boats go by. He’s pleased to find that the Thames is no wider than the River Clyde, even if the buildings lining her are posher, and there’s not a single gantry crane in sight. How _do_ they get the containers off their boats?

London doesn’t end, and the magic wears off. Every passer-by he asks for directions points him in a different one. Moving away from the river leads him into a maze of cobblestone alleys, back streets, and mews, and by mid-day he’s tired, achy, starving, and wishing he’d just taken the information lassie’s advice and gone on the tube, ticket prices be damned.

He spends the last of his money on a bag of chips and sits on a bench across from a lofty statue-bloke in a hat riding a horse in the middle of a big, smelly intersection. He wonders what’ll happen if he simply can’t find the stupid newspaper building. He’ll probably just keep wandering the streets of London like some fucking spirit who died and forgot to pass on. London feels so out of this world, if it’s possible anywhere, it’s possible here.

It’s a good twenty minutes before he notices the big letters on the side of the building across the street. He can’t quite believe his eyes when they spell out D-A-I-L-Y M-I-R-R-O-R.

It’s a fucking sign. Literally.

There must’ve been a memo to all newspaper receptionists in Great Britain not to give Jamie MacDonald from Motherwell even just a smidge of courtesy. The _Mirror_ gal tells him that if he doesn’t have an appointment, she can’t do anything for him, and anyway, it’s highly unusual to speak to the journalists directly; best if he just goes home and calls in whatever he’s got to tell the paper. Jamie would like to avoid getting barred here as well, so he goes to sit on the steps, leans against the wall, and watches the revolving door.

Let’s hope Malcolm’s less of a workaholic these days. He’d hate to be here till eight. He hasn't even got any fags this time.

\------

“Hey!”

A sharp kick jolts him awake. He clutches his backpack, pulls up his knees to kick back, before he remembers where he is.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Malcolm’s a dark silhouette against a setting sun, face hidden in deep shadows. The voice is unmistakeable, vicious irritation wrapped in a Glasgow accent. Jamie groans and rubs his shin.

“What the fuck did you kick us for? I’ve got to talk to you.”

“Is this just what you do, show up every few years and pretend we know each other?” Malcolm crouches, brings his face on level with Jamie’s, and, judging by his expression, sees something he doesn’t like. “Jesus. Jamie, you look like _shit_.”

“All right, thanks.” He wants to return an insult in kind, but as he studies Malcolm’s face, he can’t in all honesty do so. “You don’t. You look good.”

“What—oh, for fuck’s sake.” Malcolm gets back up and holds out a hand. “Come on.”

They catch a bus, a red double decker that takes them to a part of London Jamie knows as little about as he does all the other parts. They get off at a stop called Caledonian Road, which Jamie will be able to remember, and take two turns into a nice-looking residential street with neat brownstones sporting white window frames and decorative trees in front of their entrance doors. Malcolm unlocks a bright red one and ushers him inside.

“Take off your shoes. Kitchen’s through here.”

Jamie’s not sure his socks are any cleaner than his shoes, but he obeys and heads on through to the kitchen. Malcolm’s off in another room, rustling some paper around, and Jamie uses the chance to look around a little.

The place is _really nice_. Everything’s spotless, wooden fronts coordinating with white detailing and countertops, the stove one of those smooth shiny black things that Jamie’s only ever seen on the telly. He sits down at the table (it’s got a fruit bowl in the centre) and self-consciously wipes his soles on his trousers.

“I’ve not got any tea.” Malcolm comes in and heads straight for the counter without even looking around. “Just coffee.” Now he does look over, if only to point at the fruit bowl. “Help yourself.”

Jamie’s not going to say no to that; grabs a lone apple from between the oranges and satsumas. He’s mostly eaten it by the time Malcolm puts a steaming cup in front of him and sits down in the chair across.

“Thanks.” The silence is a little awkward, but the coffee’s still too hot to drink. Jamie shifts. “Nice place.”

“Yeah. Well. You know.” Malcolm doesn’t specify further. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Right.” Jamie takes a moment to sort it out in his head. “I’ve got something that I think you’ve got to know about. It’s—” He grabs his backpack. “I’ve got it written down.”

Malcolm leans back; mutters a quiet, “Jesus.” under his breath. Jamie squints; Malcolm’s acting weird. It’s almost as if he’s expecting some sort of doomsday announcement. He reaches into the backpack and pulls out the scraggly stack of mismatched paper that in his head he’s started calling his Low Moss diary.

“Here.” He hands it over. “I think there’s a story in this.”

“A—what?” Now Malcolm looks confused, apprehensive as he takes the notes. He flips through them. “What is this?”

“A story. About prisons in Scotland. You want to write about something the Tories are fucking up, write about that.”

“You—this is what you came here to talk about?”

“Yeah.” Now _Jamie_ ’s confused. “Should I be talking about something else?”

“Fuck—” Malcolm leaps to his feet, paces over to the counter. “For _fuck’s_ sake!” He kicks a cupboard, makes it rattle, leans on his palms and drops his head. His back rises and falls with deep breaths.

To say that Jamie has no clue what’s going on is putting it mildly. “Malcolm? What the fuck?”

“I thought you were going to tell me you’d caught it,” Malcolm says. He turns around, eyes blazing, and waves a hand at Jamie. “Fucking _look_ at yourself, you look like a fucking _poster boy_!”

“That I’d caught—” _Oh_. Oh, shit. “What, the _virus_?”

“Yes, the fucking virus! Jesus, Jamie. _Fuck_!”

Well, that explains it. “I’ve not caught it. Though I’m flattered that you care so much.”

It’s kind of a low blow, but Jamie can’t deny a hint of vindication at the guilt flickering across Malcolm’s face. He immediately covers it with a glare. “What the fuck do you look like that for, then, if you haven’t caught it?”

“Fucking read the story, then you’ll know.” He digs another piece of fruit from the bowl, this time a satsuma, and starts peeling it. “I want you to print this, Malc. Someone’s got to.”

Malcolm comes back over to pick up the diary, and eyes the satsuma peels on the shiny table top. “I’m taking this to the sitting room. Throw those out when you’re done.”

Jamie grunts and stays where he is. He’s got a few more satsumas and a cup of coffee to get through.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that they're finally both in London, we can get to the political journalism. Have fun, and let me know what you think!

Malcolm doesn’t start reading right away. In fact, he doesn’t even sit down, just deposits Jamie’s greasy stack of scribbles on the side table and resumes pacing.

It’s a nice fucking table. It’s got a glass top. Jamie’s paper fragments will put smudges on it, just like Jamie’s socks left dampish footprints on the polished kitchen floor, just like Jamie himself brought a smell of stale clothes and Glasgow dirt and unmitigated poverty into Malcolm’s nice fucking London pad.

He hates them, all the ways in which Jamie’s not presentable. Not like this flat, which is _made_ to be presentable. And Malcolm, Malcolm’s extremely presentable these days. Since leaving Glasgow, Malcolm’s grown presentable. In the same time, Jamie’s grown skinny and haggard and half-dead-looking, and he’s brought an account of the process right to Malcolm’s door.

It’s a fucking bill of indictment.

He sits down eventually.

Reading Jamie’s notes is slow going. Most of it is smudged, some of it is written on fucking toilet paper, and all of it is in Jamie’s scrawl that looks like a seismograph’s tiniest needle gone haywire. He’s barely through the first couple of pages when Jamie shouts from the kitchen that he intends to use Malcolm’s shower. Malcolm shouts back that the bathroom is at the top of the stairs, that Jamie will find towels in the cupboard, and that he’d better not get water all over everything.

Fifteen minutes later, the shower turns off and Jamie comes back down. Malcolm’s so engrossed that he doesn’t pay him much attention as he drops into the chair across.

When he’s through, he puts down the notes. Jamie’s made himself at home, one barefoot leg flung over the armrest, nose buried in a week-old issue of the _Mail_. He looks an embodiment of Scotland’s lost generation—skinny, sort of ragged, young enough still to wear it with an air of spite rather than despondency.

Jesus Christ, look at him waxing poetic _already_. Fuck.

“You never told me you could write.”

“Fuckin’ did.” Jamie peers over a flipped-down corner of his newspaper. “Told you I’d written stuff. Besides, I wrote you letters. Never read them, did you?”

“Two.” Malcolm holds up an according finger count. “You wrote two letters, four years ago. And no, I didn’t. I was busy.”

That’s a lie. Not that he didn’t read them, but that he was too busy to. Finding them on his desk made him feel like crap, so he took them home, shoved them in the farthest corner of a drawer, and did his best to forget about them.

“Yeah, whatever.” Jamie’s more disinterested than mad. He gestures at the notes. “You like it, then? It’s a story?”

“I’d say. This prison stuff is all over the papers, anyway. It’s all Peterhead, though, nothing about the low security facilities.”

“Peterhead’s bad.” Jamie folds the _Mail_ in his lap, and Malcolm notices that he’s given up on his shirt and is wearing Malcolm’s robe over his jeans. Apparently that’s just how it’s going to be, Jamie casually helping himself to Malcolm’s belongings. “It’s _maliciously_ shite, you know? It’s like they’re _trying_ to make it as bad as possible. Low Moss’s more—they just don’t give a toss.”

Malcolm runs a thumb along the ragged edges of the notes. “Why’d they lock you up?”

“I fucking got a job, didn’t I. Can’t have that, I might make a living.”

Malcolm snorts. “As what, a thief?”

“ _No_.” Jamie sounds genuinely offended. “Does it matter? It’s not like the story’s even about that.”

“Of course it fucking matters. This—” and Malcolm taps his fingers on the stack of paper—”is a so-called personal interest story. Readers want to know, are you a good guy or a bad guy? Did you lamp an old granny and steal her purse, or did your best mate bully you into robbing some posh bloke and leave you holding the loot? None of this works if all it is is you getting your just deserts. You’ve got to be a _martyr_.”

“All _right_. Fuck.” Jamie picks at the edge of the newspaper. “I did six months under the ‘56 Act.”

“Which fucking act is that?”

“Sexual Offences.”

For a moment, all Malcolm does is stare. “What’d you do, take all that pent-up Catholic frustration and rape some poor lass?”

“ _Fuck_ you. I was bartending, that’s all, fucking bartending. My boss had a backdoor business going. I didn’t even see any of the money, I just helped out with the girls when he wasn’t around. Which was fucking constantly.”

Jamie, prozzers’ knight in shining armour, getting himself locked up for his gallantry. It’s enough to make Malcolm cackle. “Fuck me. From priest to pimp. You’ve lived the Caledonian Dream.”

“Oh, fuck off and die, you sanctimonious twat. Am I enough of a martyr for your fucking personal interest story, or what?”

“No.” Malcolm shakes his head. “Seminarian turned sex offender, that’s fucking horrible. It’ll never play. I say we don’t even make this about you.”

“It sort of fucking is about me, though.”

“Do you really want to be the story?” Malcolm waves a hand at the newspapers scattered around the room. “The _Mirror_ ’s a fucking tabloid, they’ll want a picture. Your face splashed over the whole spread, reporters from the fucking _Sun_ phoning to get a follow-up interview so they can discuss your fucking sexual offences with you. ‘ _My Time as a Catholic Pimp_ ’, and trust me, they’re not going to be _nice_. If they don’t hate you for the Catholic or the pimp thing, they’ll hate you because you’re Scottish.”

“So, what, you’re saying don’t print it?”

“I’m _saying_ ,” and Malcolm can’t help but smile; he loves it when it all comes together like this, “you’re not the story. You’re the story- _teller_.”

“What?”

“Oh for—” It’s a good thing Malcolm has written evidence in front of him that Jamie is smarter than he looks. “This isn’t my sort of thing, this story. I don’t do personal interest stuff. But I can get you in. You write it up, and you make it _good_ , and I get the _Mirror_ to print it. Pad it with a few short pieces about Scottish and Northern conviction rates before and after, and it should play. Once you’ve got a successful publication, I can put you on my team.”

“Your team.”

“Yes, my fucking team. You want to write about politics, right?”

Finally, Jamie’s catching on. His eyes widen, alight with excitement. “Fuck _yes_ I want to write about politics. You’re saying your paper’s going to hire me?”

“I’m saying _I’m_ going to hire you. I just need something of yours to show my editor that hasn’t been written on fucking used toilet roll.”

“Fucking A, mate.” Jamie’s grin is so wide he looks maniacal. “Lend us some paper?”

\------

Malcolm puts him up in the office.

It’s the smallest room in the flat, just enough space for a desk and a sofa. Paper covers every available surface. On the desk, there’s a brand new Smith Corona typewriter. Typing on it takes longer than an overweight granny on her seventh flight of stairs, and the auto spell beep drives Jamie mental, but apparently the paper won’t take anything in cursive.

Especially not _your_ cursive, Malcolm says; it’s like you have a personal grudge against the art of penmanship. Jamie mocks him for calling it ‘the art of penmanship’, and Malcolm snarls and hands him back his first draft covered in red edits.

The sixth draft does the trick; Malcolm’s happy, or at least what passes as happy for him. It’s the story of Pete F. of unspecified denomination, an upstanding lad from Glasgow who took the wrong job and got sent up the river for assisting in a business he didn’t know existed until they slapped a pair of cuffs on him. He’ll never get over the shame, the sheer _violation_ , of having been used for such nefarious purposes, but he was prepared to do his six months in rueful repentance. Except then the violations of his person and dignity continued at the hand of the state, and it can’t _be_ like that. Prisoners are people, too.

It’s good. It’s really _good_. Jamie can’t stop reading it. It’s the kind of article he’d tear out and keep to re-read when he’s feeling beat down and wants to hear a story he can relate to. It’s every wronged working man’s suffering condensed to a one-pager. It’s going to get him a fucking job in fucking London, a real one that doesn’t involve cleaning up sick or spilled lager. It’s going to make him fucking unstoppable.

Malcolm takes him to a huge department store and buys him a suit to wear to the interview at the paper. Jamie’s eyes widen when the cashier rings them up, and he promises Malcolm that he’ll pay him back once he gets his first paycheque. Malcolm waves him off and buys him lunch.

The Daily Mirror Building is no less intimidating the second time around, but as he’s with Malcolm, the receptionist just waves them through. The entire back wall of the lift is a mirror, and Jamie uses the chance to fix his tie, until Malcolm slaps his hands away and tells him that it’s _fine_.

Malcolm’s looking pretty nervous, too. Not that he doesn’t always, but his lips are extra-thin today.

Malcolm’s editor is called Mark and looks like Jim Davis’ fat twin brother. When Malcolm crowds into the office behind Jamie, Mark waves at him to leave. The storm cloud over Malcolm’s head intensifies, but he does as told and pulls the door shut behind him. Mark tugs a string to close the blinds; then sits down behind his desk to stare at Jamie.

Jamie ignores a strong sense of déjà-vu and stares back.

“How much of this did you write yourself?”

“All of it.” That’s not a lie, no matter how much Mark wants to quirk his eyebrows. Malcolm edited, but Jamie wrote.

“How do you know this ‘Pete F.’?”

“He’s a mate.”

That gets a chuckle. “Right. Where did you go to school?”

“Cardross. Glasgow, later. St Peter’s Seminary.”

“You’re a seminarian?” That’s the first genuine thing Mark’s said so far.

“Not anymore. I quit round-about four years ago.”

“How come?”

“Difference of opinion.”

Another chuckle; this one’s more favourable. “How do you know Malcolm?”

“He wrote an article about me. We’ve crossed paths a few times since.”

He doesn’t know what’s funny about that, either, but perhaps Mark has some sort of rare epilepsy of the diaphragm. “You’re cut from the same cloth, aren’t you?” Jamie narrows his eyes. Fuck him if Mark doesn’t laugh again. “Christ, yeah, you are. Well,” and he pats the article, “I’ll give this a shot. If it plays, maybe we’ll have something to talk about. I’ll call you. You got a number?”

“I’m staying at Malcolm’s.”

Something passes over Mark’s face, but it’s too fleeting for Jamie to figure out what it is. “Right. Well, thanks for coming in.”

Jamie shakes his hand and leaves. When Malcolm asks how it went, he doesn’t have an answer, which pisses Malcolm off to no end. Heading back to Caledonian Road, Jamie feels like anything but London’s next big name in journalism.

\------

Fluffy personal-interest stuff, even when it’s about young lads being sent to prison, goes into the Saturday issue. Mark speaks to Jamie on Wednesday, so it’s three days before Malcolm can call the skeleton shift and ask them for the sales numbers.

It’s three long days of pure fucking torture.

Cohabitation with Jamie had been going better than Malcolm expected, but turns out that was because Jamie was pre-occupied with his article. With no more writing to be done, Jamie gets restless on his own in the flat.

Wednesday night, Malcolm finds the newspapers in the sitting room re-arranged. Barred from touching anything unless he puts it back exactly where it was, on Thursday night Jamie’s not in the flat when Malcolm comes home. He gets back so late that Malcolm considers calling the police and reporting him missing. They have a bit of a shouting match in which Jamie insists that he’s fucking twenty-three and can take care of himself, and Malcolm shouts back that if Jamie can take care of himself, how come he keeps showing up on Malcolm’s doorstep asking _Malcolm_ to take care of him.

Friday is spent in a mutual huff, which Jamie grows tired of on Saturday. Malcolm would rather spend the day shut in his office, but a) it’s not just his office anymore, it’s also Jamie’s room, which means that besides all of Jamie’s clutter, there’s a distracting scent hanging about it, and b) Jamie practically begs him to show him around Whitehall, and Malcolm still finds himself incapable of saying no to the little shit.

Trafalgar Square impresses Jamie, but he’s underwhelmed by 10 Downing, and so thoroughly amused by the Queen’s Guard that his cackling brings a smile to Malcolm’s face. What a bunch of right English wankers. Don’t they realise they look fucking ridiculous? Probably not, Malcolm replies, none of them ever do.

It’s still funny as they make their way down to Parliament and Westminster Bridge. Leaning on the railing with Big Ben looming to their right, Jamie asks Malcolm what the election in June’s going to bring, and levity makes a quick exit to be replaced by gloom and doomsday feelings. Kinnock’s trying his best, but the way things are looking, the Iron Lady will take Britain into the next decade, perhaps into the next century, right over the broken bodies of miners and Wapping printworkers.

Jamie spits his disgust into the Thames. She’s got to die at some point, right? She’s old as fucking balls. But the entire party isn’t going to die, says Malcolm, unless you’re talking about blowing up cabinet. The glint in Jamie’s eyes is worrisome, until he laughs and slaps Malcolm on the back. The way Jamie can go from murderous psychopath to innocent darling within the blink of an eye does uncomfortable things to Malcolm’s insides.

Malcolm doesn’t go out much for fun. He’s out a lot, but it’s always for work. When they end up in a Soho bar that night, he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Jamie, for his part, makes friends with the bartender in the time it takes Malcolm to pull off his jacket.

The man’s from Cardiff and hates the Tories, which is what saves Malcolm from becoming an awkward conversation bystander. A little into the discussion, the leather-vested bloke who’s been hunkering at the end of the bar joins in, and Malcolm smells trouble. _He_ can figure out easily enough why the guy is bringing up the Tories’ ‘Young, Gay, and Proud’ posters, but he’s not sure Jamie has a clue.

“Fucking reactionary shite, if you ask me.” Undeterred by his own ignorance, Jamie drains another pint. “It’s happening, right? Whether you think it’s right or not, gay shit’s fucking happening everywhere. Pretending it’s not isn’t going to make it stop. Better to educate people.”

“Why are we even asking if it’s right or not? It’s not the state’s job to police the private life of British citizens. If that’s anyone’s job, it’s the Church’s, and last I checked, it’s not a citizenship requirement to be a member.”

It’s like Jamie can’t hear the fucking wagonload of challenge in the man’s voice, like he can’t see the pierced ear with the single sparkly stud. Or perhaps he just doesn’t know what they fucking mean, which is worse.

“Nah. It’s _advisable_ , what with saving your eternal soul an’ all. But the political side of it—I can tell you right now, any politician using religion as a reason to condemn queers getting it on is a hypocritical shite.”

“It’s in the Bible, though, isn’t it? Homosexuality’s a sin. Perhaps the Bible’s just wrong.”

“The Bible is not fucking wrong.” There’s such conviction in Jamie’s voice that Malcolm throws him a side-glance. He can’t claim to understand Jamie’s relationship to the Faith, and he knows better than to fucking ask, but he _is_ curious to hear this. “The Bible’s like the fucking writing on the wall at Belshazzar’s feast, right?” Jamie waves his arms, possibly to suggest imaginary flaming letters. “No-one knows how to fucking read it. They all try, and when they can’t figure it out, they make it up. And _then_ , then they make it up how it suits them.”

The bartender leans forward, engrossed, and Malcolm thinks that Jamie would’ve made a good figure in the pulpit. “You’re saying the Church is lying?”

“The Church is telling whatever truth suits them best.” Jamie stabs a finger at him. “And the Tories are fucking running with it, because it’s easy. Give us someone to blame for the fucking plague we’re dealing with, well, here you go, have the fucking queers, we didn’t want them, anyway.”

Malcolm’s playing with Jamie’s lighter that he left out after his last fag, and asks a question despite knowing better. “So you’re saying it’s not a sin?”

“What? Taking it up the bum?” Jamie laughs. “Of course it’s a fucking sin, Malc. Have you even just _once_ in your life spoken to a priest? All ‘carnal relations’,” and he chews on the words like they’re caramel toffee, “they’re all a fucking sin, unless you’re making a bairn.”

The bloke in the leather vest (who’s introduced himself as Ross) snorts. “So it’s either fucking women and adding a kid to the collection every nine months, or celibacy?”

“Pretty much.” Jamie takes a swig of his beer. “But let me tell you this, celibacy fucking _blows_.”

Ross laughs, throws a skinny arm around Jamie’s shoulders. “I like this kid,” he says with a glance at Malcolm. “Where’d you find him?”

“Seminary, believe it or not.”

Ross clearly thinks he’s joking, and suddenly, Malcolm’s annoyed. He chucks the lighter onto the bar. “This place got a phone? I’ve got to make a call.”

The phone’s in the back, and he catches the skeleton shift on their way out. Peggy gives him the sales numbers, her smile audible even through the phone. They’re really fucking _good_.

Malcolm says thanks and hangs up. Good sales numbers mean a job for Jamie. A job for Jamie means that Jamie’ll stay in London. Watching Jamie across the bar, still with Ross hanging off of his shoulder, probably still not aware that the bloke’s as bent as the late Rock Hudson, Malcolm has no idea how to feel about that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm quite excited for this one to go up. :D [Here are a few pictures](http://t-eyla.tumblr.com/post/162153844443) to go with this chapter.
> 
> Have fun, and let me know what you think!

Jamie, for his part, feels great about the job. For the first time in his life, he’s got a legal, above-board, taxable income. He opens a bank account, pays Malcolm back for the suit, and finds himself a studio flat right above Camden High that Malcolm refuses to set foot in after Jamie tells him it’s perfect, it’s just got a bit of a mould problem.

That’s what fucking vinegar essence is for. Sometimes, Malcolm knows _nothing_.

As promised, Malcolm puts him on his team at the _Mirror_ , and immediately chucks him in the deep end with the coverage of the upcoming election. Jamie writes more in the next month than he’s written in his life—partly because Malcolm makes him rewrite everything again and again; the man’s a _merciless_ boss.

He’s also the king of fucking motivational speeches, ‘fuck’ being the operative word. Jamie has heard Malcolm shout on occasion, but most of the time, he seems to stick to caustic sarcasm that doesn't need increased volume for impact. Not so at work. Surrounded by cowed English overbreds, Malcolm owns the newsroom like a vicious tomcat his territory. The sarcasm Jamie always finds a little unsettling, but shouty newsroom Malcolm is like a daily dose of life elixir.

On the big night, Jamie's perched on the edge of Malcolm's desk, chewing his nails down to the flesh as they wait for the telly to announce the results. Malcolm's expression doesn't change when they finally declare yet another round for Thatcher. He didn't seem to have much hope going in, and lost the little he had after the preliminary results.

Call him stupid, but Jamie was praying for a miracle. Actually praying; he spent ten minutes in the gents earlier, pacing and muttering as he tried to find the right words to get through to someone, _anyone_ upstairs. No dice, as they say in the land that birthed trickle-down economics. The Tories are staying in Number 10, and Jamie feels a bitter, familiar betrayal in his gut.

“We knew this was going to happen.” It sounds like Malcolm's telling him he's stupid for hoping, but Jamie knows it's an attempt at comfort. “Kinnock tried, but you can’t win when you’re fighting on two fronts. Besides, Thatcher’s got so much big business in her pocket she's putting the Lavender List to shame. I say we take our seats and count our blessings.”

“Why is it that anytime someone wants you to eat shit, they tell you to count your blessings? Fuck that, Malc. This is no blessing, this is just more money for folk who don't need it, and less support for folk who do.”

“Yeah, well, you can always go join the fucking Salvation Army if you think what we’re doing’s not enough.”

“Fuck.” Really, he should've known Malcolm's stoicism was just an act; of course the man’s telling himself he's singularly responsible for the election results. “That's not what I meant, Malc. We did good.”

“We did our fucking jobs. Fat lot of good that did.”

“Better luck next time, hey?”

Malcolm throws him a sour look. “Oh, fuck off.”

Malcolm goes out to drink his pain away with a bunch of his Party pals, and Jamie does the same with the pals he’s made in his neighbourhood. They’re all late-wave punks and flannel-wearing grungers who make a living in Camden Lock and populate the pubs up and down Camden High after the market closes. They take the piss out of him for being strait-laced with a real job and ironed shirts, but they also tell him that he keeps it real, and they appreciate that. Jamie’s not entirely sure what they mean, but he likes being pals with people who know the neighbourhood like the back of their hand. He also likes being pals with people who know how to have a good time, and these guys definitely do.

That said, they’re being a bunch of wankers tonight. None of them expected the election to turn out any way other than it did (if they even care at all, ignorant fucking shits). Unlike Malcolm, they do mean to tell him that he was being stupid for hoping. Jamie gets too drunk too quickly, and shouts at them that cynicism’s fucking _easy_ ; it’s like taking a plunge off the church steeple; doesn’t matter who runs the country because it’s all going to end with a red smudge on the cobblestone, anyway, but _guess what_ , the only person you’re saving like that is yourself, and even that’s fucking doubtful, because who knows, perhaps the Church is fucking _right_ when they say topping yourself gets you barred from everlasting life.

They don’t like it when he brings up the Faith, so he ends up on his own at the bar, putting away pints he doesn’t really want. Nights like these, it’s hard to hold on to all the good things in his life. Nights like these, London feels really big, the people around him feel really foreign, and he ends up wondering if he should have taken his chances with the Church, after all. He’d be a deacon by now, perhaps even a priest. Father O’Malley’s not getting any younger, so Jamie’s old parish in Motherwell will be needing a successor soon. It’s not like Scotland’s overflowing with young Fathers.

Priest in Motherwell, that was the _plan_ , when he was twelve and went to Cardross. What happened to the fucking plan, anyway?

“You look like you could use something stronger.”

The guy suggesting that is Pete. Pete’s lived long enough to be developing crow’s feet, dressed in torn jeans and a worn-out leather jacket, hair spiked to signify his disgust with the establishment. Underneath his tough exterior, he’s a sweetheart, and Jamie feels a surge of gratitude at the kindness in his eyes.

“Better not,” he says, rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Just bin thinking about home, you know? World’s so different just a train ride away.”

“World’s different five stops down the tube.” Pete leans his elbows on the bar. “Down in Mayfair, in _Kensington_ , they’re celebrating right now. Planning their next big factory sell-out to fucking China. What they’re going to call their fifth yacht. We’re here just trying to keep our heads above water.”

“What a fucking mess.” He shakes his head, drains his glass. “’s not fucking fair, is it?”

“No, it’s not.” Pete’s quiet for long enough that Jamie looks around. Pete is eyeing him, and there’s a timbre of innuendo in his voice. “What d’you say we get out of here?”

Since arriving in London, Jamie’s been asked that question by a bloke more than once, so the shock value’s worn off. He didn’t think he was ever going to say yes.

Turns out there’s a first time for everything.

\------

Jamie’s flat is right around the corner, so that’s where they go. Pete crowds in behind him as Jamie kicks off his shoes. The feeling of Pete’s sinewy body against his back makes something inside of Jamie give, and out pours a suffocating need he never knew he had.

Pete’s taken by surprise when Jamie shoves him against the wall, pushes up his Ramones tank to expose a pale chest and pierced nipples. Jamie puts his mouth over one of them and growls when Pete makes a noise. “Fuck.” Jamie shoves a hand between Pete’s legs to find a fucking intriguing bulge.

“ _Fuck_. Slow down.”

Jamie doesn’t intend to, crowds in closer and yanks open Pete’s belt, until a hand grabs his hair and drags him back.

“ _Ow_! What— _fuck_!”

“I said, _slow the fuck down_.”

“You fucking want this or not?” Wincing, Jamie squints at Pete. He _wants_ , wants to tear the wanker’s clothes off, wants to get him naked and wants to find a hole, any hole, to fuck. He knows it’s wrong, because Pete’s not a girl, and even with a girl it’d not really be right. But right now, he doesn’t care. He fucking _wants_.

But Pete just looks weirded out. “You little shit, what is your problem?”

“ _You_ , right now. Let us go!” Pete does, and Jamie stumbles back, rubs his aching scalp and glares. “If you don’t want this, get the _fuck_ out!”

“You’re fucking mental.” Pete shrugs his jacket back in place. “Word to the wise, kid, get over your hang-ups before you try this again. Next one might not be as nice.”

“What, are you threatening me? Get the fuck out of my sight, you fucking gay shite!”

Pete does, but not without shoving the coat stand into the mirror on his way out the door. Glass splinters all over the floor keep Jamie from charging after him and throwing him down the stairs, which is probably a good thing. He normally likes Pete, after all.

Pacing doesn’t get rid of his boner, which sits hard as a rod between his legs and chafes against his trousers. He pulls them off, drops to his knees. He’s not sure if he’s intending to pray or what, but what he does end up doing is tug himself off, violent strokes until he squirts all over his hand and stomach. He feels gutted after he’s done.

Crawling into bed, he tries to summon the mantra of the rosary, but it’s no good. If there’s ever been a valley of darkness, this tiny Camden studio is it, a patch of wicked land at the heart of the modern Babylon.

\------

The trick about surviving the valley of darkness is to put your trust into beings greater and smarter than you. Malcolm is Jamie’s daily beacon of hope, and he guides him through the next months, which even Jamie will admit are a little difficult. Getting used to life in the South is harder than expected.

Malcolm keeps him busy. They write about the MPs that get shuffled around post-election, the policies that were promised and are now put into practice (or not); they talk to staffers and shadow staffers and disappointed Alliance voters, and for a week or two in August, they write about nothing but the SDP-Liberals merge.

Jamie doesn’t mind the fact finding and the research, and he can do the analytical articles about the various strategic effects of this and that event or resignation. Those are the pieces, though, that Malcolm covers in red ink again and again before he finally greenlights them. The stories Jamie is _good_ at, that’s the stories about people: straight-up personal interest, biographical stuff, new-political-figure profiling, interviews. His piece on David Owen’s new “Gang of Three” makes it to the bottom of the front page, and both Mark and Malcolm congratulate him. Malcolm’s smile shows every last one of his teeth all the way back to the molars.

Jamie accepts the praise and tries to ignore the way Malcolm’s presence makes his skin prickle. It’s not new that Malcolm makes him feel this way, but it’s a feeling he now can put a name to. It’s not really the sort of thing he wants to be feeling about his boss—or, for that matter, his only real friend in the city.

If Malcolm is his friend. Malcolm’s circle of acquaintances seems to solely consist of sources and networking opportunities; Jamie’s not sure Malcolm does friends. But when a huge autumn storm knocks out both Jamie’s power and his single window, Malcolm offers him the sofa without Jamie even having to ask. That’s mates, right?

As for politics, it’s like Maggie’s so secure in her leadership now that she throws all caution to the wind and reveals how black her heart _really_ is. Clause 28 bans public institutions from talking about homosexuality, which has the queers up in arms—or the _LGBT community_ , as Malcolm calls them for a while, until Rick leaves a picture of a gaunt Freddie Mercury in an unbuttoned silk shirt holding a Persian on his desk. Rick never writes a lead article again, and quits to go to the _Standard_ four months later, but Malcolm drops the acronym and goes back to calling them poofs.

Everyone’s mad about the poll tax. Jamie’s mam writes one of her rare letters to ask where she’s supposed to take the money to pay this new bill. She also asks if Jamie can’t _do_ something about it. He’s right there in the middle of it all, isn’t he? It leads to one of Jamie’s rare political fights with Malcolm—Jamie doesn’t understand how Malcolm can be backing the Party in their spineless no-protest policy on this, and Malcolm shouts at him to not be such a fucking short-sighted pillock; if they want the wankers to hang themselves, they need to let them have enough slack to tie a fucking noose.

When the disaster at Hillsborough Stadium happens, Mark puts Jamie on the team in Sheffield, telling him to work his personal interest magic and ignoring Malcolm’s shouting about having a member of his team snatched away for sports coverage. It’s not sports, Jamie tells Malcolm on the phone in the early hours of a dreary April morning when he’s finally back in his hotel room. It’s _major_ , it’s like that film that Malcolm made him watch, where the journalists and the FBI informant bring down the US president. The constabulary is playing a blame game to dump the dead fans at the door of Liverpool hooligans and distract from their own crowd management fuck-up. It’s Yorkshire’s fucking Watergate.

The _Mirror_ is the only major tabloid that doesn’t run with the story about monstrous Northern hooligans defiling corpses and police. Jamie’s seen that copy floating around, spent hours running around Sheffield trying in vain to verify it. Looks like verification isn’t needed for the _Sun_. When he and the team get back into London, the giant bold headline is plastered all over the stands at Euston: _**The Truth**_ , as if there were such a thing. It makes him fucking sick.

That night, he ends up knocking on Malcolm’s door in Islington.

Malcolm doesn’t look surprised, lets him in and gets him a drink. They sit on Malcolm’s sofa, rolling news on mute after Jamie asks Malcolm to make them fucking shut up about it all. He tells Malcolm about the pictures he saw, the ones that the photographer took that were too grisly to make it into the final issue. Talks about how Sheffield reminded him of Motherwell, sort of, and how he’s asking himself who they’d be blaming if it had happened at Ibrox or Celtic Park.

Anyone, says Malcolm. They don’t care how many they’ve killed; they just don’t want to be on the hook. It’s not like anyone north of Leicester is an actual person to them.

Fucking wankers.

\------

Jamie’s in a crumpled shirt and a skewed tie, hair all over the place from where he keeps carding his fingers through it. The bags under his eyes make him look pathetic. Malcolm carefully avoids thinking about what he’s doing when he puts an arm around his shoulders.

Jamie sags closer against Malcolm’s side and keeps talking. Apparently, he spoke to a father who lost his two daughters in the crush. He _cares_ so much; Malcolm wonders how he gets through his days. It’s not like what happened at Hillsborough is an exception. It’s just a visualisation of the violence Whitehall’s perpetuating against the people day after day, and has been for years.

But that’s why Jamie can do personal interest stuff; he’s somehow managed not to grow numb to it all. It’s stupid, of course, it’s like walking around Southwark in your socks and trusting in the Almighty God to protect you from a needle prick. But it’s also _Jamie_. Malcolm’s been forced to acknowledge at this point that he’s pretty stupid when it comes to Jamie.

It’s like an inoffensive form of Tourette’s; Jamie just can’t seem to shut up, even when he’s out of words to express whatever it is he’s worrying in his head like a dog its favourite bone. Turnstiles and pens and access tunnels and pictures of people being crushed to death against a wire-mesh fence. None of it is particularly coherent, so Malcolm tunes him out. Not for the first time, he notices that Jamie’s like a walking fucking furnace; a direct opposite of Malcolm, who once found himself freezing on a mid-August fact finder in Rome. His hair is thick and too long, and springs back into spirally curls when Malcolm straightens it between his fingers.

His voice is a low drone accentuated with the familiar r’s and stretched vowels of Strathclyde, and Malcolm doesn’t realise it’s stopped until Jamie shifts and presses a clumsy kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It’s startling, it’s too cold and too foreign, and it makes the bottom drop out of Malcolm’s gut. He pulls away, gets up off the sofa and across the room before he knows he’s even moving.

“What the _fuck_ was that?”

Jamie stares. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look fucking sorry. He doesn’t _sound_ it as he gets to his feet, pushes the hair out of his face. “I’m fucking sorry, was I misreading the situation? The one just now? ‘cos I was feeling pretty Romeo to your fucking _Juliet_ , if you know what I mean.”

Malcolm’s words are frozen in his throat. He _hates_ this man, this stupid Motherwell Catholic who has no right to have this much power over him. He never fucking asked for this.

“Get out.”

“Malc. Come on.”

Jamie’s confused now. Malcolm advances on him, thrusts a finger at the door. “Get the _fuck_ out of my house.”

Jamie’s eyes flit back and forth, wide and blue. “All right.” He grabs his jacket. “All right, Malc. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

That’s a fucking lie, and Jamie should know _better_ , but this is not the sort of discussion Malcolm’s going to start right now. He clears the way to the door. Jamie passes him, turns a little as he shoves his arms into his jacket.

“I won’t tell anyone. It never even happened.”

“Just fucking scram, Jamie. _Go home_.”

“All right.” He’s at the door now, knob in hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

He’s fucking terrified, Malcolm can tell, and it almost makes him feel bad for him, except Jamie _should know better_ , and the fact that he doesn’t makes _Malcolm_ terrified. “Get _out_!”

Jamie does, and the door falls shut behind him. Malcolm turns around and slams the heel of his hand into the wall. The brick can take it, but the shock drops a picture frame. Shards spill everywhere.

Malcolm’s almost grateful for the clean-up job. It means he can focus on that, and make quick work of forgetting the past fifteen minutes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot happens in this chapter, so get comfortable! And let me know what you think when you're done. :)

Of course, Malcolm's memory is better than the shared hereditary consciousness of six generations of elephants, and he doesn’t forget it. It keeps replaying in the back of his head, over and over, leaving him anxious or terrified or angry, or all of the above.

Sometimes, it leaves him turned on and aching for a quiet five minutes in the gents. Those are the worst ones.

Malcolm’s a good strategist, so it doesn’t take him long to formulate a plan. Jamie’s jumpy around him, wide-eyed and trying to please, alternating with bursts of knee-jerk aggression. He gets him in one of the former moods and drags him off to the south of London.

South of the river, there’s not much worth noting, and south of Waterloo it gets even bleaker. Malcolm takes them all the way down to Wimbledon, and ignores the confusion rolling off of Jamie as he herds him past the gates of Lambeth Cemetery.

He’s been here twice before. It’s not a place he’s soon to forget.

London has a number of rich and fancy burial grounds, but Lambeth Cemetery isn’t one of them. An unremarkable brick chapel resides over an amalgamation of garden-variety gravestones, many of them staked to keep them upright. The dusty dirt paths follow a predictable grid pattern, and even the trees can’t provide any gravitas—half-grown and far between, they stretch scraggly limbs to the sky as if praying for someone to get them out of this place.

Malcolm leads Jamie past the world war plaques and the cholera epidemic memorial (also unimpressive, and covered in so much bird shit that Malcolm wouldn’t be surprised if you could _catch_ cholera from touching it) to the far back where the wall of the crematorium lines the edge of the cemetery. Along the moss-covered brick lie the urn graves, small plots with little more to mark them than a rusty plaque mounted on the wall above. He finds the newest one, all the way at the north-eastern end, and points.

“Look at it.”

By the time they hit Clapham, Jamie had gone through every version of ‘where are you taking me’. Now, he just looks suspicious, and throws Malcolm a glare before he stoops down to inspect the plaque. “What is it I’m looking at?”

“The age.”

Jamie’s eyebrows go through contortions. Malcolm rolls his eyes when he uses his fingers to count out the years. “Twenty-eight.”

“Right. What about the next one?”

“Malc—”

“The next one. Fucking tell me his age.”

Jamie counts on his fingers again. “Thirty-five.”

“Right. Next one?”

They go through the next few, all men between the age of twenty-six and forty-five, all of them deaths that occurred in the past two years. Malcolm could go on all night, but eventually Jamie throws up his hands.

“All _right_ , Malc, I get it!”

“Do you?” The weather’s grown colder again, winter’s last attempt at dominance before summer will finally put it out of its misery. Malcolm’s glad for his coat; it’s good for looming. “Do you get it, because I’m not sure you do.”

Jamie shifts, back to suspicious. “They all died of the virus. I get that. What I don’t get is why you’re showing me this.”

Jamie’s so fucking _clueless_ , raised on the ancient Catholic worldview that there’s no such thing as random bad luck, no such thing as a virus that’ll kill you no matter how good or bad a person you are. Jamie walks around like nothing can touch him, and Malcolm remembers feeling like that. Malcolm also remembers realising what a dangerous load of bullshit it is.

“I’m showing you because this,” and he grabs Jamie’s sleeve to drag him back to the first grave they looked at, points at the empty plot beside it, “this could be you, if you’re not careful. London’s great, but London’s also really fucking dangerous. All right? You’ve got to fucking watch your back, and you’ve got to stop _trusting_ everyone. They don’t all want the best for you.”

If anything, Jamie looks more confused. Then his eyes narrow. “Are you having some sort of meltdown over what happened when I got back from Sheffield?”

“I’m not having a fucking meltdown.”

“Jesus Christ,” and Jamie tears himself loose, takes a step back. “You _are_. You think I’m totally fucking stupid, don’t you? We had AIDS back in Glasgow, Malc, this is not the first time I’m fucking hearing about it.”

“You had AIDS. In fucking seminary.”

“I _wasn’t_ in seminary.” Jamie’s loud, and brash, and sometimes aggressive, but it’s rare that Malcolm’s seen him genuinely angry. He’s genuinely angry right now. “By the time you left, I’d fucking quit, hadn’t I? You think I got nicked for pimping altar boys out of the choir stalls? I had fucking _nothing_.” Jamie’s teeth are bared. For a moment, Malcolm worries he’s going to get punched. Then Jamie continues, somewhat calmer. “If I was smart enough not to catch it from the girls, or in prison, I’m fucking smart enough not to catch it from a nervy skeleton too uptight to let anyone touch him, let alone _fuck_ him. All right?”

The silence hangs between them. There’s a million things Malcolm wants to say, from “I’m sorry for leaving” to “go fuck yourself and die, you self-righteous cunt”. In the end, he grabs Jamie’s sleeve again and pulls him back down the path.

“Let—” Jamie tries to pull away. “Will you fucking stop!”

“Just fucking walk, you twat,” and Malcolm gives him a not-so-gentle shove between the shoulder blades.

It almost escalates, but they somehow make their way to a grave about halfway down the path. Jamie’s glare is shooting daggers, but Malcolm just points. He doesn’t need to look himself. He knows what the plaque says.

“I met this guy a month after I came here. Good bloke, he was a civil servant in the Department of Health. I was fucking new, wasn’t I, didn’t know anyone. Definitely didn’t know how to navigate the ‘scene’,” and he despises that word, so he flicks the air quotes with fervent hate as he spits it out. “He showed me around, and I had a really good fucking time, until everyone around me started dropping dead.”

“Were you and him—” and Jamie makes an awkward hand gesture. It’s not even obscene, but Malcolm still knows exactly what Jamie’s asking. He snarls.

“It doesn’t fucking matter. None of it fucking _matters_ , right? Everyone had a good _fucking_ time, and then the good fucking times fucking _stopped_ , and now it’s just a matter of finding out who’s left standing.”

Jamie watches him, scepticism writ large on his face, before he squints at the plaque. “1984. It’s been five years, Malc.” He looks up. “Did you get tested?”

He makes it sound so simple. Malcolm really hates him. “There was no fucking test in 1984.”

“Yeah, but they’ve developed one since, right? _Malcolm_ ,” and the little shit actually laughs, incredulous, as he steps closer. “Have you honestly been sitting on this for _five fucking years_?”

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Jamie’s hand hovers next to his sleeve, and it’s making Malcolm’s back tense and spasm. There’s a lump in his throat and a burning in his eyes. He’s feeling _really fucking compromised_ , and it’s all Jamie’s fault.

“I’m not going to drop dead from touching you.” Jamie not only touches, but _hugs_ him. It’s like every muscle in Malcolm’s body turns into titanium. Jamie squeezes. “ _Relax_.”

He doesn’t, not for a while, but Jamie’s refusing to let go, and titanium muscles are hard to uphold. Eventually, he lowers his head onto Jamie’s shoulder. The fucker actually pats him on the back.

“We’ll get you tested,” he says, like he’s talking to a child. “Though as it’s been five years, I think you’re safe.”

“Nobody’s ever fucking safe.” It’s a mumbled protest, mostly for decorum, and Jamie chuckles.

“Yeah, all right, J. Edgar.”

Malcolm’s elephant memory lets him down on the trip back to civilisation. All he remembers is a blur of houses growing gradually more respectable the further north they get. Jamie oversees his making an appointment with a clinic, and then offers to stay. Malcolm tells him to get to fuck.

Lying in bed that night, for the first time in a long time he thinks about his body without wanting to retch. He sneaks two fingers under his waistband, prods, experimenting. There was a time, for a short while, when this used to be exciting. If the test turns out like Jamie thinks it will, perhaps there’s a chance that it could be again.

\------

It takes Jamie a few days to notice the change in Malcolm’s behaviour. The man’s never going to set a record for most relaxed person in the Greater London Area, and he doesn’t shout any less—if anything, he shouts more. But it’s like something has settled into fragile stability. There’s jokes, and wider smiles with actual humour rather than barely-veiled homicidal intentions behind them. It makes Jamie happy to see.

It also makes Jamie really fucking horny, but for Malcolm’s sake, he’s holding off until the test results come back.

They do about a week after the appointment, but as it’s Malcolm, it’s a lot more complicated than that. He avoids Jamie, or hisses that this is work and they have bigger fish to talk about than Malcolm’s personal health, which is a fucking confidential matter anyway. Once, he straight-up _lies_ and says the results aren’t back yet, and it’s so obvious that Jamie snaps.

“Just fucking _open the letter_ , Malcolm! It’s not Pandora’s fucking Box, keeping it closed doesn’t mean the bad things won’t still happen.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Malcolm’s lips disappear and his eyes grow three shades darker. Jamie tries to explain that he didn’t mean that bad things necessarily will happen, in fact, he’s pretty fucking sure that everything is fine, but Malcolm isn’t having it. They don’t talk for the rest of the day, and in the evening, Malcolm disappears from the office without a word.

Jamie holds out until after dark before he makes his way to Islington.

He’s starting to feel like a fucking stalker when Malcolm refuses to open the door for the longest time. But Jamie’s got an edge over Malcolm when it comes to being stubborn; he’s prepared to sleep on the stoop if he has to. Malcolm knows that, too, so eventually, he lets him in.

The letter’s on the side table in the sitting room, and it’s open. Malcolm won’t meet his eyes, just sits on the sofa and stares at the news.

Jamie’s beginning to feel a little worried. “What’s it say, then?”

Malcolm shrugs. “I haven’t looked.”

“You—” Jamie snatches up the letter. Sure enough, the envelope is torn, but the letter itself is still neatly creased and untouched. “For fuck’s _sake_ , Malcolm.”

“Put that down, it’s fucking confidential.”

“Yeah, well, kiss my confidential balls.”

Malcolm’s out of his seat and across the room like a cat who saw a bird, but he’s still not fast enough to stop Jamie. He only gets a split-second to take in the letter before Malcolm snatches it away, but it’s enough. Malcolm looks madder than the aforementioned cat after the bird got away, but Jamie’s laughing.

“Fucking told you! I fucking _told_ you, you’re _fine_!”

Malcolm glares, shakes out the letter. He stares at it for long enough that Jamie worries he misread, and that’s a big fucking worry, that makes him feel like someone’s poured lead into his gut. “Malc?” He reaches out. “What—”

Malcolm snatches the letter away, then tosses it aside. He’s staring at Jamie now, sharp, blue-grey eyes under threatening eyebrows and hair that’s just about long enough to need a fresh cut. Jamie feels a little petrified, and startles when Malcolm shoves him back against the wall.

“You think we’re gonna fuck now, do you?”

Jamie opens his mouth, but he doesn’t make a sound. Truth is that _yes_ , he sort of did; he figured once Malcolm had the reassurance that he was neither lethally poisonous nor a dead man walking, there’d be no reason to hold off any longer.

Malcolm shakes his head with a sneer, and again, that smarts.

“D’you not want it, then?” It’s an honest question. Jamie doesn’t think he’s misread Malcolm so completely, but it’s a possibility.

“How’s this going to play out?” Malcolm takes a step back and spreads his arms. “Is this just going to be an occasional shag? Or perhaps just the one? Just ‘cos you haven’t tried that particular part of the menu yet?”

“No—” Jesus. Jamie was _not_ prepared to have this conversation. “It’s not like that.”

“Right. Right. So it’s more going to be a real thing, a _serious_ thing. A thing where you, what, move into my flat, spread your fucking dirty flotsam around? It’s not like you haven’t tried _that_ before, right?”

Jamie sees the disgusted curl of Malcolm's lip and decides that he’s fucking had enough. “Screw you, you twat.” He pushes off the wall, grabs his jacket. “Talk to me when you’ve decided not to be a huge fucking cunt about this, all right? And have a fucking blast wanking yourself to sleep. Who knows, maybe the magic poof fairy will appear and give you a blowjob. Would only be your first in, what, like a decade?”

“She’s bound to give better head than an inexperienced Catholic shite like you.”

Jamie’s already on his way to the door, but that makes him stop. “She? Why the _fuck_ would it be a she?”

Malcolm narrows his eyes, and Jamie can tell that anything further would be a colossal waste of time. “For fuck’s sake. _Forget_ it, Malcolm.”

On his way out, he slams the door hard enough to make the frame rattle.

\------

They don’t fucking talk about it.

They don’t _ever_ talk about it, and as far as Malcolm’s concerned, that’s for the best. There’s nothing to talk about. And if Jamie gets a little more distant, a little more cynical, well, that’s just fine and dandy. The kid’s never had a sense of what's appropriate. It’s time he grew up.

In the next few years, everything and nothing happens. Unemployment falls, inflation rises, everyone’s hating the poll tax. Housing prices go down, unemployment goes back up, everyone’s still hating the poll tax. Ambulance crews go on strike, Kinnock announces the next recession, and the BBC says that every fifth Briton is a poll tax dodger. From the Vale of Glamorgan to the European Parliament, Labour slowly gains support.

Sometime after the fall of the Berlin Wall and before the release of _The Show Must Go On_ , the Iron Lady resigns.

It should make a difference. _Jamie_ thinks it does, Jamie’s shouting with joy and punching the wall (Jamie when happy looks a lot like Jamie when mad). For a while, the euphoria pulls Malcolm along. But he’s a realist, always has been. Taking the head off the Hydra just means you’ll have to deal with the new ugly mugs that appear.

The Party’s in a tizzy trying to figure out how to best capitalise on the situation, and the tabloids firmly slot into opposing camps. Malcolm spends more time than ever on the phone to other editors, most notably that fucking pompous jobby from the _Sun_. Not that the man is actually prepared to talk to him; Malcolm has no leverage to make him, but that doesn’t stop him from ringing the man’s number (or rather, _numbers_ , the prick has a mobile phone as well) and shouting as much as he can before he’s hung up on. ‘You cannot print this. You cannot _run_ with this story, you’re fucking _lying_ , you’re _fabricating_.’ The arsehole doesn’t care.

At one point, Jamie asks him if he’s changed his stance on there being no such thing as the truth. He tells Jamie to fuck off if he knows what’s good for him, and makes the paper buy him a mobile phone, too. Now he can shout at people on the go; it’s fucking great.

The election of Kinnock vs. Major comes close to being the worst night of Malcolm’s life. He goes into it hyped on weeks of barely sleeping and ingesting copious amounts of coffee so strong it’d cause a heart attack in a hippo. He’s seen all the polls, knows all the numbers. He _knows_ how close it’s going to be. But when Kinnock concedes to Major, sombre face ravaged by the flickering lines of the BBC broadcast, it feels like everything Malcolm’s worked for his entire life is going up in flames before his eyes.

They’re the news, so they deal with it. The IRA makes it easier for them by blowing up the Baltic Exchange building the day after, killing three and causing untold damage. They write about that, big tabloid headlines framing pictures of bleeding victims, to distract from the utter despondency of the election results. The _Sun_ publishes a smug article claiming credit for the Tory win and mocking Kinnock, and their fucking prick editor leaves Malcolm a message on his mobile that brings him close to throwing the expensive gadget across the newsroom.

If Jamie was disproportionally upset last election, this time the result elicits no more than an unwilling growl, a frown, and a question of how they’re going to handle the coverage. Malcolm doesn’t press at the time; he has other things to worry about. But when the days pass without as much as a comment from Jamie, he makes a point of paying closer attention. It’s not long before he notices that nothing much at all seems to upset Jamie anymore.

It's not easy to see, because even indifferent Jamie is more intense than most people. These days, though, his rants almost seem like a performance. When Malcolm asks him to write a piece on the 15-year-old who died in the blast, Jamie delivers a draft that could've been written by anyone on the team—printable, but nowhere near Jamie's usual standard.

Jamie's making a point of leaving on time whenever he can, and some few weeks later, he moves into a two-bedroom flat in West Brompton. Cathy, the girl who mans reception on Fridays, moves in with him. As it turns out, they're a couple.

How long, is the first thing Malcolm wants to know. About four months, Jamie tells him. How come he's never bloody mentioned her? Well, maybe because they never fucking talk about anything other than work. Doesn't Jamie think they've got more important things going on, like reforming the Party and destroying the remaining Tory lead? Doesn’t Jamie think four months is _a bit quick_ to move in together?

He's almost fucking thirty, Jamie tells him. If he's going to start a family, he’s not going to wait until he's fucking decrepit to do so. It's time to think about settling down.

The thought of Jamie with a family—with _children_ —is so absurd that it kills the conversation dead. Malcolm meets Cathy, shakes her hand one Friday night as he runs into her and Jamie leaving the building. She's cute, bouncy brown hair framing a cheerful smile. She thanks him for everything he's done for Jamie. The encounter is fucking bizarre.

When the dust from Kinnock’s resignation finally settles, Malcolm finds himself in a better position than he'd dared hope for. Over the years, he’s formed bonds with a number of Party members—some of them based on mutual sympathies; all of them with strategic benefits. As it turns out, the new leader likes one of Malcolm’s closest so-called friends well enough to appoint him Shadow Home Sec.

It’s the last bit of leverage he needs to finish off Mark. It doesn’t make sense that the guy who’s better connected is taking orders from the guy who’s been chief editor in nothing but name for the past few years, does it? Mark hems and haws, and when that doesn’t help, he invokes every swear word he knows to ward off the inevitable. But Mark’s never been anything but a bloodless locust. Before long, he’s packing up his things and disappearing into the professional Nirvana of tabloid journalists, and Malcolm finally gets to have the big fucking glass office at the top of the newsroom that he’s been coveting for years.

He doesn’t actually spend that much time in it. He’s a hands-on sort of editor who likes to oversee his journalists’ work up close. It’s the best way to catch mistakes early. The paper buys him a new mobile, a fancy one that flips, small enough to fit in his pocket. With his notes under one arm and his phone in his hand, Malcolm wonders why he even _needs_ an office. Still, it’s a nice status symbol.

Jamie’s expected to take Malcolm’s old position. By design, he’s the most likely candidate. By his performance over the past months, Malcolm’s not sure it’s the best idea. He wants to call Jamie into his new office, sit him down and tell it to him straight: I’m not fucking sure about you anymore. Before he can do so, Jamie appears in his office of his own accord.

As it turns out, Jamie already _knows_. He sits in the visitor’s chair, glaring, and asks what’s going to happen. What does Malcolm want? Jamie’s put in his time, his sweat and his elbow grease, and he’s never let the paper down. He’s never let _Malcolm_ down. So what exactly is it that’s costing him the editor position?

Malcolm sneers to cover up his discomfort at the ambush, leans back and steeples his fingers. Jamie looks good. He’s broadened, shoulders pushing against the seams of his shirt, chest bulking out. Part of it is probably Cathy’s home cooking, but it’s not just domestic chub. Jamie’s a proper bloke at this point, so different from the lad who tackled Malcolm in Albion Street years ago, or the skinny half-grown cunt who came to London with nothing but the clothes on his back. Perhaps Jamie _should_ be thinking about marriage, about family. Malcolm supposes that’s the big question.

“I’ve got no use for you if I’m only getting fifty percent.” Jamie's expression clouds over; Malcolm ignores it. “I’m happy to keep you on a desk, but Jamie, you’re no fucking multi-tasker. If you’re off building a white picket fence, I’m not going to get from you what I need.”

“That’s bullshit, Malcolm. Who’re you going to put in charge instead? They’ve all got fucking family.”

Malcolm leans forward. “What they’ve got is wives. Kids, perhaps. Most folk don’t care, Jamie. You fucking _care_. You want this position, I need you to care about _that_ , not your hypothetical fucking family.”

Jamie laughs. “What, you think you’re the Pope? I’m not going to swear an oath of celibacy, Malc.”

“Didn’t fucking ask you to.” He says it and ignores the part of him that wants to ask for exactly that—loyalty, unwavering, in body and mind, forever after. Jamie was going to give it to the Church. Malcolm’s the last person to claim he’s without flaws, but he’s no worse than the fucking _Church_.

For a while, Jamie doesn’t break the silence. Eventually, he gets to his feet. “Heard and understood. But just so you know, Malc, this is a fucking dick move.”

Malcolm’s stomach turns as he watches him walk away. He fucking _hates_ all-in gambles.

\------

Jamie takes the long way home, which is the one that leads via the pub on the corner of his street.

The bartender’s name is Ben, and Jamie’s well-acquainted. He’s not looking for conversation tonight, so after serving the first drink, Ben leaves him alone with the bottle. He sits there with his elbows on the shiny oak surface, worries errant curls at the side of his head as he nurses the sharp liquid.

“What’s more important?” he asks, several drinks later, when Ben’s dealt with his other patrons and is stacking pint glasses on the shelf. “Is it something you should do, or something you _feel_ like you should do?”

“What’s the difference?” Ben finishes and comes over. Jamie swirls his drink in the glass.

“Take taxes, right? Should do them. Nobody really _feels_ like they should, though, it’s nobody’s fucking calling. Except tax accountants, maybe, but they’re fucking broken in the head.”

“My brother’s a tax accountant.” Jamie stares with the vague notion that some response is expected of him, but he’s saved by Ben laughing. “’s just a joke. So—you’re asking me if you should do your taxes or follow your calling? Why can’t you do both?”

“It’s not about fucking taxes.” Jamie’s annoyed. “It’s about the things you should do, the things that’re expected, and the things you _have_ to do, even if you’re not sure you want to do them.”

“If you have to do them, you don’t really got a choice, do you?”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything,” Jamie snarls, drains his drink. “I’ve fucking walked away before, I can do it again.”

“Walked away from what?”

Things he’d put his trust in, that he was prepared to die for. Except back then, he wasn’t just walking away. He was also walking _towards_ , wasn’t he?

He thinks of Cathy who’s waiting in the flat, and he realises it’s not the same. His throat constricts; he likes her. She’s great. She’s uncomplicated. They could have kids, and Jamie would love to have kids. He’s not sure what’s left of his faith these days, but _kids_ , well. Kids are God’s fucking miracles.

He digs out his wallet, head lowered to hide the shine in his eyes. “I’m taking the bottle.”

“I can’t sell by the bottle. I don’t have the licence.”

“Well, fucking _give_ it to me, then.” Jamie throws enough money on the bar to cover it. “And consider this a generous fucking donation to your fine establishment.”

“All _right_.” Ben scoops up the notes. He sounds annoyed. “Get yourself sorted, huh? If not for yourself, then for your girl.”

Jamie sneers. “You’re fucking useless.”

“Yeah, screw you, too, mate.”

It’s not far from the pub to the flat, but Jamie takes as long as humanly possible. He doesn’t want to talk to Cathy tonight; he’s heard somewhere that this isn’t the kind of conversation to have when you’ve been necking booze for the best part of the evening. But Cathy’s not blind, and she asks him what’s wrong, and he’s not going to fucking _lie_.

It takes him a while to get it out. He’s had no time to think, so it’s garbled and incoherent. Malcolm’s name comes up a lot. When she asks, high-pitched, if he’s ditching her for his _boss_ , he wants to tell her she’s got the wrong idea. But she sort of doesn’t, does she?

She takes his silence as a confirmation.

“Oh my _God_!” She’s already in her nightgown, her hair framing her face like a tousled halo. “You never—you—we’ve had sex a lot, Jamie!”

That’s a complete non-sequitur, and Jamie blinks. “What?”

“You’re not gay! I know you’re not gay!”

“I’m no’—” His brain’s a bit slower than normal, but he thinks even sober, he’d have no idea what she’s getting at. “I’m not _saying_ that I am.”

“Then what’s this about Malcolm? Jamie—” She puts a palm against his chest, looks really fucking concerned all of a sudden. “Is he putting pressure on you? I know he got you the job at the _Mirror_ , but Jamie, you know you don’t owe him anything, right? Least of all _that_.”

Slowly, very slowly, it dawns on Jamie what Cathy’s insinuating. When the realisation hits, he jerks back, slaps her hand away. “What the fuck, Caths? I’m not Malcolm’s fucking bumboy!”

“Aren’t you?” She’s back to mad now, holding her hand at an odd, startled angle where he slapped it. “I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, Jamie! I thought we were fine!”

He has no clue how to handle this, how to answer her questions and accusations. He’s probably fucked, because how _do_ you explain that you feel two conflicting urges as if they were complementary rather than mutually exclusive? Answer is, you don’t. There are no words to explain his dysfunction.

“I’m sorry, Caths.” He’s choked up again, and pulls a noseful of snot up so far it lodges in his brain and stings behind his eyes. “I’ll look for a flat. Don’t want to put you out of your home.”

That doesn’t seem to be what she wants to hear. She’s crying, too, and it’s really hard to resist the urge to fix it, to make it okay. He knows how to make her feel good. But that’s over now.

“I don’t want this _stupid_ flat!” She spits the words like they’re poison. “I want you to tell me what’s going on!”

“Nothing! It’s—it’s not you, all right?”

“Then _what_?”

Too much to put into words. Jamie tries, but nothing comes out.

The light from the bedroom casts a shadow over her face as she gets up. “Malcolm _bloody_ Tucker. He’s not even fucking nice!”

It’s like a final condemnation before she storms off. The bedroom door slams. Jamie slumps back into the sofa, still clutching the bottle from the pub.

Between then and the morning, he finishes it off.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter 7, which is dedicated to every queer couple in my country. We finally got the right to marry today! About time.
> 
> Anyway, we're a little over half-way through now! Have fun, and let me know what you think.

Malcolm’s in early, and he’s eternally grateful for the deserted newsroom when he hears Jamie stumble in.

He smells him before he sees him. Yesterday’s clothes, sweat-soaked and rumpled, emit an aroma of alcohol and distress. Malcolm supposes it’s a blessing that Jamie’s not clutching the bottle anymore that he’s clearly been clinging to all night.

Jamie makes a beeline for him, blue eyes glowering from underneath a menacing brow. He’s got a day’s worth of stubble on his jaw, which makes him look like a lumberjack who stopped shaving for a month. For a split-second, Malcolm thinks he’s coming in for a punch, but then all he does is shove him back against the bulletin board.

“I fucking ditched her, didn’t I.” There’s flecks of snot crusted under his nose. “She thinks you’re pressuring me for sexual fucking favours, Malc. Joke’s on her, right?”

He’s busy catching himself and keeping his balance, but there’s always time for a sneer. “She tries to take that public, she won’t know what hit her.”

“She’s not going to do that,” and Jamie makes it sound like the most ridiculous fucking idea. “She’s not _you_ , you fucking paranoid shite.”

“Good.” Malcolm grabs a print-out of today’s _Sun_ headline and pins it to the top of the board. “You want the job, then?”

“I fucking do.” Something in Jamie’s tone makes Malcolm look around. Jamie’s eyes are wide and dark, like a fucking predator’s before the pounce. “There’s something else I want.”

“What do you think this is, a Macmillan charity drive?” He’s barely finished when he’s shoved against the board again. This time, Jamie crowds in, five foot ten of stocky Scotsman pinning him to the wall. The smell of booze and sleepless nights crowds into his nostrils, and a well-known panic makes his stomach drop, but there’s no time to do anything about it, because Jamie’s crushing their mouths together.

There’s nothing about it that’s fucking delicate at all, Jamie’s blunt tongue shoving between Malcolm’s teeth and _curling_. It’s on reflex that Malcolm uses his own to hook it and keep it right where it is. You ambush him, you’re not going to get to leave on your own terms. He pushes back, and Jamie’s all over him, pressing in closer and shoving him back with two large hands on his hipbones. Malcolm sucks and bites, and Jamie _growls_ , and then it’s over, Jamie panting next to his ear like an asthmatic mutt.

“Fucking _this_ , Malc.” A few deep breaths; then Jamie pulls himself together, steps back. The glare in his eyes hasn’t diminished. “It’s going to happen. I’m all fucking yours, but that means you owe me. Do you get that?”

Malcolm’s inclined to concede that Jamie has a point, but right now, that’s not happening. Right now, he needs time to put himself back together. “What I get is that you’re in no fucking state to be working.” He smooths out his shirt where Jamie’s grip has crumpled the fabric. “Go home, get yourself sorted. We’ll sort it out later.”

“You fucking bet we will.” Jamie bares his teeth, but he starts walking towards the door. “You fucking _owe_ me, Malc. Remember that.”

Jamie’s slurring his words, and it sounds like he’s proclaiming a status of belligerent serfdom in the dominion of Tucker. Malcolm waits until Jamie’s cleared the floor, then plants his palms on a nearby desk, shoves a grimy white keyboard out of the way. His body is taut as a bow, and it takes him a while to remember how to work his facial muscles. When he does, his lips pull back in a grin.

Fucking _victory_. This gamble, he’s won.

\------

Jamie’s back, he’s pouring his heart and soul into the work, and when he’s not doing that, he’s stalking Malcolm. A brush of hands here, a touch of shoulders there, and too many smouldering glares to shake a stick at.

To Malcolm, it’s fucking exhilarating, giving a little and then pulling the plug, watching Jamie stalk off with the fire in his eyes burning brighter than ever. Granted, part of why Malcolm’s still holding out is because there’s just never a good opportunity—either they’re in the office, or they’re out with colleagues or Party contacts. There’s so much happening that work isn’t a convenient excuse, it’s a legitimate obstacle.

They do share a couple of combative intimate moments, once in a damp alley behind a pub, and once in the glitzy hotel gents at a Party event. The latter involves shirts being yanked out of trousers, and Malcolm can’t deny the sheer thrill of Jamie’s fingers groping at his ribs and bare back. It may have gone further, had a sudden noise not interrupted them.

It’s a testament to how bad an idea this is. Making stupid choices at Party events that could ruin his reputation, and therefore his career, isn’t the kind of thing he should be allowing to happen. But it’s _Jamie_. After all these years, he’s still as dumb as ever about Jamie.

John Smith dies of a heart attack, and Malcolm’s Shadow Home Sec contact rises into leadership. He’s not in the habit of celebrating people’s sudden deaths—he’s not _that_ much of a monster—but he can’t help a hiss of triumph when he hears the news.

It’s not long before he receives an invitation to dinner.

It’s a swanky Chinese place somewhere in Covent Garden. He has the sweet-and-sour chicken as he listens to the smoothest, most multi-layered job pitch he’s ever heard. The Party has three years left to sway the polls, and they need someone who knows what he’s doing. Malcolm’s always made the impression that he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing.

That’s accompanied by an almost invisible smirk, and Malcolm comes close to feeling warm fuzzies at the confirmation that nobody’s being duped here. They're both at this table because they value the strategic benefits of the acquaintance, neither of them with any illusions that it's anything more than that. He prefers arrangements like this over so-called friendships. They make things simple.

He doesn’t sell out too easily, of course. He’s dedicated his life to the news, he points out, independent journalism divorced from party bias and political machinations. As if the _Mirror_ were an independent newspaper, as if he hadn’t made deal after deal with the man sitting across from him regarding his choices of front-page news and headlines. They both know it’s bullshit, but it strengthens Malcolm’s position and helps him negotiate a truly mind-blowing recompense.

They’re almost done when Malcolm names his last condition. He needs to be able to bring along his staff.

The Press Office doesn’t need writers; they’ve got all the writers they could want. It’s a delicate matter; they need to be very careful about whom to bring into the fold.

This one is a safe bet, Malcolm says, a _good_ bet. He would vouch for him with his life.

It’s a little too much; he can tell. An awkward moment of silence, a look of shocked surprise. But the man across from him is a politician. He smooths it over within seconds; that’s a glowing recommendation if he’s ever heard one, so very well, one staff position is Malcolm’s to fill.

Two. All right, two.

They have a deal.

There’s drinks, a dessert too sweet for Malcolm’s tastes, followed by more drinks. They shake on it once more before they part ways.

At the tube stop, Malcolm deliberates for less than a second before he gets on the train going west instead of north.

\------

It’s past any decent working man’s bedtime, so Jamie’s asleep when the doorbell rings.

There’s exactly one person in London he knows well enough that he’d be ringing his doorbell at two in the fucking morning. He peers through the spy-hole, waits for his bleary eyes to focus, and sees his suspicion confirmed: Malcolm comes into view. He’s wearing a very nice suit with a very nice shirt and tie, and he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet like a kid at the ice cream stand.

This should be interesting.

“Are you hiding from the coppers?” Jamie asks as he opens the door. “Can’t think of another fucking reason you’d show up here.”

Malcolm’s grinning, eyes alight with excitement. “I’ve got some great fucking news. Let us in?”

They head into the sitting room, Jamie bringing up the rear and taking the opportunity to watch the outline of Malcolm’s shoulders shift under his jacket. Suits have only got looser since the last decade, and it’s _killing_ Jamie to get all that fabric off, see what’s hiding underneath. Fucking skinny Nosferatu, and now Jamie’s wondering if Malcolm’s a biter.

He stays on his feet as Malcolm drops onto the sofa. Malcolm’s hair is just long enough to start curling at the ends, and it’s grizzled with some grey at the temples. Jamie’s not noticed that before. He likes it.

“What’s your great fucking news?” Arms crossed, he leans against a patch of naked wall where Cathy’s bookshelf used to stand. “Did we win an election I didn’t know was happening?”

Malcolm throws him a sly look, and Jamie shifts.

“Almost,” he says. “We’ve been recruited, Jamie.”

“Oh, aye? By whom?”

“Who do you fucking think, the British Charity Foundation for Displaced Glaswegians? By the _Party_. We’ve been recruited into the Press Office.”

The words take a moment to process. “By your Shadow Home Sec pal? What, they want me, too?”

“I made sure they do.” Malcolm gets up, stalks over. “And he’s not Shadow Home Sec anymore, he’s _leader_. We’re going to get into government sooner or later, and when we do, I’m going to be best fucking pals with the PM of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.” Malcolm’s face is inches from Jamie’s, thin lips pulled back in a triumphant sneer. “You’re going to be my second in command. We’re going to fucking _make things happen_ , Jamie.”

There’s gin and tonic on Malcolm’s breath, fire in his eyes, and it’s like an electric spark jumping the wires when euphoria explodes in Jamie’s chest. He grabs Malcolm’s hips, twists him around, and crowds him up against the wall. He’s pulling on Malcolm’s shirt as he pushes their mouths together. Malcolm tastes like juniper berries and five spice, and Jamie can feel the tremor in his lips when he laughs.

Kissing Malcolm is exactly like having a shouting match with him; looking for moments of weakness, turning his attacks around on him, and pushing back the barriers. Before long, he’s got Malcolm’s jacket off, his shirt untucked, his tie hanging loose. Malcolm’s not putting up much of a fight for once; he’s playing at evasion, but it’s like he’s _daring_ Jamie to win. Jamie’s got his arms and hips pinned, and when he pulls back for a breath, Malcolm’s grinning.

“You’re fucking gagging for it, aren’t you; how long has it been?”

“Not as long as it’s been for you.” He grabs Malcolm’s wrist, pulls him towards the bedroom. “No more fucking excuses.”

In the bedroom, Jamie makes quick work of the little he’s wearing—just a t-shirt and shorts, which he chucks into a corner. He meets Malcolm’s inscrutable once-over with a challenge. He looks good, he knows he fucking does, and Malcolm’s still wearing too many fucking layers.

He gestures at them. “Get on with it.”

“What if I don’t?”

“You fucking—” He shoves Malcolm onto the bed. The mattress bounces, and it turns into a wrestling match, Jamie yanking on buttons while Malcolm twists underneath. He’s fucking laughing again.

“This is an expensive fucking suit,” he gasps as he attempts to evade Jamie undoing his fly. “I’m not going to let you tear that off of me like a clumsy fucking Don Cunt-an.”

“Fucking take it off yourself, then,” and Jamie lets out a triumphant hiss as a good yank pops open the last of Malcolm’s shirt buttons. “Stop playing at coy fucking Queen Victoria, you fucking queer shite.”

The words have an unexpected effect. Malcolm goes from good-natured squirming to fucking mean sea-creature kraken attack, and a second later, Jamie finds himself on his back, pinned to the mattress with a bony knee on each of his shoulders.

“Fuck—” Dull pain shoots into his fingertips. Now he’s the one squirming, and he laughs, helpless. “Fucking ow, Malc, that _hurts_!”

“What did you fucking call me?” Malcolm leans back, plants a palm on Jamie’s stomach to hold his hips down. Jamie gasps as the pressure on his arms shifts.

“I didn’t call you anything, get _off_ —” It’s uncomfortable, and Jamie bares his teeth, wincing as he tries to pull out from under Malcolm. The pressure intensifies, then disappears along with the weight on his chest.

“Sorry.” The mattress shifts as Malcolm slides off. “I’m fucking sorry, Jamie, are you okay?”

His shoulders ache, but the pain becomes secondary at the expression on Malcolm’s face. Malc looks worried all of a sudden, worried and guilty and not at all like the triumphant shite he was acting like a moment ago, and this is _not_ what’s supposed to be happening.

“I’m _fine_ ,” and he gets to his knees as well. “I’m fucking fine, Malc, stop worrying.”

He pulls him in, and he did manage to get most of Malcolm’s clothes at least halfway undone. The shirt’s easy enough to get rid of, and then Malc looks a bit ridiculous with the tie still hanging around his neck, so Jamie pulls that off as well. He slides a hand behind Malcolm’s neck and kisses him.

It’s a proper fucking kiss, gentler than the ones they’ve shared so far. It’s almost as if Malcolm’s holding back, though, hesitant or _something_ , so Jamie pulls him in tighter, strokes his thumb through the hair at the nape of his neck until the apprehension abates.

Eventually, Malcolm breaks away, rests his head on Jamie’s shoulder. It’s like hugging a famine victim, all bones and sinew and no fucking body heat whatsoever. Jamie strokes his palms down Malcolm’s back, wriggles his fingers underneath his waistband. Malcolm chuckles next to his ear.

“You’ve never done this, have you?”

“I’m no fucking virgin, Malc.”

Malcolm tickles his lips against Jamie’s neck, makes him squirm. “With a bloke?”

Not technically with a bloke. But— “What’s the fucking difference?”

Malcolm groans. “Well, I wouldn’t fucking know.”

He pushes away, gets off the bed, and Jamie’s alarmed for a second—what if Malcolm’s decided this isn’t going to be the night of nights, after all?—but all he’s doing is shedding the rest of his clothes. He pulls open the drawer of Jamie’s nightstand, roots around in it. “You got any supplies?”

He does. He’s been prepping for this, after all. With a pile of condoms and a bottle of Durex in reach, he gets Malcolm horizontal again, sprawled out on his back and all Jamie’s for the taking.

Malcolm’s being unusually lenient, allowing Jamie to touch wherever he likes. Jamie’s not even going straight for Malcolm’s crotch, he’s saving that for later. He covers Malcolm’s body with his own, nibbles and kisses his neck and earlobe, fingers finding a nipple to play with. Malcolm’s eyes slide half-shut, his lips part in quiet sighs, and the tension bleed out of his body.

It’s all very tame, much less savage than the first times he’s imagined having with Malcolm, but it’s making Malcolm start to look fucking _relaxed_. Jamie’s never seen him like that.

“That’s right,” he murmurs, right next to Malcolm’s ear, as he trails his nails along Malcolm’s side. “Jus’ let me take care of you.”

Malcolm grunts, twitches away from Jamie’s hand. “Gonna have to do more than tickle me, then,” and his eyes crack open, half-lidded and fucking _fond_. Pride explodes in Jamie’s chest.

“No fucking problem.”

It’s time to explore down below. He knows his way around his own cock, of course, so it’s not completely unfamiliar terrain. He watches Malcolm, registers every hitch of his breath, every twitch of those ferocious eyebrows as he tries all the things he likes himself, and a few he’s not particularly fond of but that might work for Malc.

The biggest success he has when he slides his hand all the way down, cups Malcolm’s ballsack and nudges his fingers against the soft spot behind it. Malcolm hisses, arches up, and presses his forearms against the headboard. Jamie grins.

“That’s good, is it?”

“Fuck, Jamie—” Malcolm peers at him, lips curling in defiance, but then Jamie presses down again, a little different this time, a little harder, and Malcolm’s head falls back. He makes an actual sound, much louder than a hiss. “ _Fuck_!”

This was worth the wait. It’s the fucking sexiest thing Jamie’s ever seen. He grinds his prick against Malcolm’s thigh, shifts up for another kiss. It’s a bit of an ambush, and he hooks Malcolm’s tongue into his mouth, sucks on it hard as he drags his hand up Malcolm’s cock.

Malcolm _shudders_ , his whole body trembling under Jamie’s. It’s a fucking revelation.

Hands in his hair push him back. Malcolm does bite, catches Jamie's lower lip between his teeth. Jamie's not a fan, but it only lasts a split-second before Malcolm lets go. He's panting hard.

“Get—” He doesn't finish, instead stretches to reach for the condoms. Jamie's closer, so he grabs one first. Malcolm tries to snatch it out of his fingers, Jamie evades on reflex, and it turns into a scuffle. “Stop—” Malcolm snarls and twists them around, pushes Jamie down on the bed. He's a wiry fucker. “Gimme that!”

Jamie lets him have it, grins up at the scolding glare Malcolm sends down as he tears open the packet. “You wee shite, you'd turn a wedding into a brawl.”

“Don't pretend like you don't like it.”

Malcolm grabs Jamie’s cock in response, and Jamie gasps. A couple of quick, tight pumps make sparks explode along his nerves. He squirms, hands flailing. “Fuck, Malc, don't—”

Malcolm slows down. The onslaught evens out enough so Jamie can avoid the embarrassment of finishing before anything’s even started. As his eyes focus, he sees Malcolm watching him, staring like he's writing a mental Jamie MacDonald compendium. It's more attention than anyone's ever paid him in his life.

“How'd you know?”

Jamie squints, confused.

“That you'd enjoy this,” and Malcolm sounds impatient, a bit exasperated. “Big fucking gamble, innit? Would've been awkward to get to here and figure out you're straight after all.”

Malcolm's doing a bang-up job of re-engaging Jamie's brain with the conversation. Jamie's not fucking impressed; converse is not what he wants to be doing right now.

“For fuck’s sake, Malc,” and he plucks the rolled-up johnny from Malcolm's fingers. “Turn off that massive brain of yours, all right? You're supposed to be _enjoying_ yerself.”

Malcolm watches with a smile as Jamie suits up. He can count on one hand the number of times he's seen Malcolm look like this: pleased, fond, almost happy. He's the one putting that expression on Malcolm's face. With a pleased growl, he reaches up to pull Malcolm down; he wants another kiss.

The angle is awkward and Malcolm loses his balance, so they don't kiss so much as topple in a tangled heap across the bed. It gives Jamie a chance to get back on top. He uses his weight to pin Malcolm down, threads his fingers into Malc’s as he pushes their hands above their heads and sticks his tongue into Malcolm’s mouth.

He does need to breathe, so Malcolm gets a chance to talk, a low, raspy purr in Jamie’s ear. “So now that you’re all ready to go; have you figured out where to put it yet?”

Smug bastard. Jamie bites Malcolm's lip, pleased to elicit a grunt. “Thought I'd find a hole, stick it in. That usually works.”

“’s not that kind of hole, dipshit.” Malcolm squirms, tries to reach for something on the nightstand. Jamie makes himself as heavy as possible, just because he can. Malcolm groans, then swears. “Jesus, Jamie, lay off the Cadbury, hey? Get the fucking lube.”

As Jamie fishes for it, Malcolm explains what he's meant to use it for. “No shit, Sherlock.” Jamie rolls his eyes, wriggles the bottle so Malcolm can see the fill line. “Not the first time I'm using it, is it?”

He can tell that Malcolm's going to follow that up with at least three questions irrelevant to the situation, so he quickly pours some lube out into his palm. Half of it lands on Malc’s shoulder, and there's more squirming. “Jesus, Jamie, watch it!”

“You need to learn to fucking shut up,” and Jamie shifts, slides off to the side so he can reach down between Malcolm's legs. “I've seen fucking Rangers be more focused after taking a blow to the head.”

“I'm focused, I'm— _fuck_.” Jamie's found the sweet spot again, and he quickly figures out how to keep his thumb on it while the rest of his fingers go about teasing Malcolm's hole. Fire burns in his crotch as he watches Malcolm's eyes glaze over, his mouth go slack. He grinds against Malcolm's side, teeth worrying the inside of his lip.

“Yeah,” he says under his breath, “that's it. Got your attention now, don't I?”

Malcolm's right when he says it's a different kind of hole. For one thing, it's impossibly fucking tight. At first, he can't get a finger in at all, just rubs and wriggles and watches every nudge of his fingertip make Malcolm's breath come in even shorter gasps. Then Malcolm swears and pulls his knees up. It's easier now, especially when Jamie moves down and between Malcolm's legs. More lube eases the way inside, and as he moves his fingers, he's rewarded with more cursing.

“Jesus fuck, Jamie, get—” Malcolm pushes down. “Come _on_!”

For a moment, all Jamie can do is kneel there between Malcolm's drawn-up legs, jaw slack and eyes glassy as he takes in the ecstasy on Malcolm's face. This is so much better than anything he'd ever imagined.

Then Malcolm bears down harder, and Jamie remembers that he's supposed to be participating.

“Easy,” he says, rubs a hand along Malcolm’s thigh as he curls his fingers a bit more, “don't fucking skewer yerself there.”

“Get on with it, then!”

“It’s really tight, Malc, I don’t—”

“Jesus _wept_! Fuck.” Malcolm exhales, visibly centres himself. Jamie holds still, watches. He’s aching, but Malcolm obviously has a _plan_. A moment later, Malcolm’s eyes open, find Jamie’s. His tongue flicks out. “Okay, good. Go.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure, Jamie, _go_.”

He really fucking hopes this is going to work; who knew bumsex was so complicated. But Malcolm’s still breathing with purpose, he’s still _looking_ at him, eyes bright and sharp and focused. It sends sparks right through Jamie’s body.

“Fuck,” quiet, and breathless, and he shifts, pulls out his fingers to line up. It’s a little awkward, it’s further back than what he’s used to, but then Malcolm hooks his legs over his shoulders and it’s exactly right; they’re almost there. He leans forward to balance himself, and it brings them even closer, Malcolm all curled up around him. It’s really fucking _intimate_.

“You okay?” he asks, and Malcolm breathes, nods.

“’m okay. Fucking do it, Jamie.”

The tricky part is getting the tip in there. It’s slow, and really fucking _tight_ , and Jamie has to stop a couple of times not just on Malcolm’s behalf. It’s like the most antagonising yet rapturous handjob he’s ever had. By the time he’s in properly, they’re both panting, both shaking, and Jamie forgets about his cock for a moment to lean down into a kiss.

It’s a great fucking idea. Leaning down means pushing down on Malcolm’s thighs, rocking his hips up into Jamie’s, and now they’re not just kissing, they’re also fucking. Malcolm tastes like sweat, smells like ink, and his body is actually emitting warmth. It’s like he’s seconds away from combustion. Jamie’s there, too, arousal boiling under his skin.

Malcolm grabs his hand, pushes it between their moving bodies.

“Shit,” Jamie gasps, breaks the kiss and pushes himself up, “fucking look at me, Malc, I want to see—”

He gets to. He touches Malcolm, and it doesn’t take long to make him go rigid. His eyelids flutter, his mouth goes slack, and for a moment, he looks completely fucking oblivious. Jamie aims his entire attention at making that moment last as long as possible, keeps moving his hand and hips, mutters encouraging noises. When his concentration is broken by the sudden white-out of his own orgasm, he’s a bit blind-sided.

He loses his balance, which means they roll over sideways. Malcolm does contortions to keep from dislocating a hip, and Jamie groans as he slips out. It’s cold and too distant and completely fucking unacceptable, so he scrambles to pull Malcolm close again, ends up on his back with Malcolm half on top. He’s floating, arms and legs tingling, and even to himself, his smile feels pretty fucking dopey.

“Fuck. Fucking _great_.” He laughs, reaches up, cards his fingers through Malcolm’s hair and finds his eyes. Malcolm wouldn’t be Malcolm if he didn’t look sort of alarmed, but right now, that’s combined with something that if he didn’t know better, Jamie would call affection. His expression softens. “You good?”

“Yeah.” There’s a hand in his hair, and it sends very pleasant fucking tingles along Jamie’s spine. He shifts a little closer into the warmth of Malcolm’s body, nuzzles his face into his chest, closes his eyes. When Malcolm chuckles, he can hear the sound rumble inside his body. “Are you going to pass out?”

“’s middle of th’ night.” He has to work in the morning.

“You’re _filthy_ ,” but it’s a good-natured protest; Jamie can hear the smile in Malcolm’s voice. He wants to reply that he’ll deal with it later, but what comes out is pretty much unintelligible.

Just as well. Malcolm’s smart, he’ll figure out that there’s no way Jamie’s moving in the next few hours.

\------

Jamie drops off like someone flicked a switch, and Malcolm’s left holding an armful of snoozing soon-to-be-Labour-Press-Officer in the dim light of Jamie’s bedroom.

He doesn’t mind. He needs to sort out his head. Not that he really knows what he’s supposed to be thinking about; he’s still feeling all light and floaty, with a comfortable ache in his bum and an assortment of smells and body fluids around him that at any other time would make him very uncomfortable, but right now don’t bother him at all.

They mean he had sex with Jamie. Try as he might, he can’t find a good reason for why that should be a bad thing. He’s sure there is one, he just can’t fucking think of it right now.

He eventually extricates himself, cleans up a little with what he hopes is a fresh towel. He turns off the light, gets back into bed, and is immediately accosted. Apparently, being asleep doesn’t mean Jamie doesn’t still want to be wrapped around him like a hairy octopus. Malcolm pulls the blanket over both of them and lies there in the dark. In the back of his mind, he can feel an avalanche of doubt building.

Piss off, he thinks, shifts closer to Jamie and shuts his eyes with purpose. One night of fucking peace and quiet, is that too much to ask?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will be taking us into canon for the first time; series 1 and 2 and the specials. As stated in the beginning, you'll be fine if you haven't seen it, but just in case you find yourself feeling like you're missing a reference, it may be a canon reference.
> 
> I don't have enough research pictures left to fill another post, but I wouldn't want to deprive you of [this amazing 1997 Tory campaign poster](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/4/42/New_Labour_New_Danger.gif) featuring Tony Blair with demon eyes. Graphic design is their passion.
> 
> Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

The next morning, Malcolm doesn’t have a change of clothes, or a toothbrush, or the time to make the detour via Islington and still get to work on time. Jamie, who _likes_ the hours between six and twelve and tends to greet most days with enthusiasm, learns through trial by fire that Malcolm needs his space in the morning.

They both give notice that day, printed on the office printer and still warm when Jamie stuffs them into envelopes. Three weeks later, they move into the opposition press office in Westminster. The building is nice, just down the street from Parliament, but compared to the _Mirror_ newsroom, the office shows the difference between government and private funding.

Malcolm’s first act as Head of Opposition Press is to shout at the money people until all remaining typewriters are replaced with personal computers, and all senior press officers are equipped with mobile phones. Jamie likes having a mobile, it’s convenient. He just keeps forgetting to charge it.

The work is fast-paced and larger in scale than Jamie expected. Some of the stuff that comes across his desk, he knows the papers would _kill_ for. It’s a question now of what to give them, what to hold back, what to blow out of proportion, and what to cover with static from some other, benign news item. It’s a huge landscape to survey, all national newspapers, TV, radio, and magazines. There’s very little writing. Jamie kind of misses the writing.

Malcolm’s loving it. He’s like the undervalued second fiddle finally getting to play the solo part; on top of his game, and two steps ahead of everyone else. Jamie’s glad to just keep up, acts as Malcolm’s enforcer in the press room when Malcolm is out with the leader, with the Shadow MPs, with this beneficiary and that significant member of Parliament, planning and scheming and enacting the Party’s strategy to reform and finally get back into government.

Their private life, when they manage to carve one out, is no less active. They have a lot to make up for, after all, now that Malcolm’s finally fucking game. It's _vital_ , however, that they keep it out of the office, as Malcolm makes sure to repeat so many times that Jamie gives himself a headache rolling his eyes too hard. They're in politics now, tolerance and open-mindedness only go so far, and definitely not far enough to keep the _Sun_ from doing a spread on a juicy gay Labour scandal, should they ever get wind.

He _knows_ , he tells Malcolm. He’s been working in print news for near on a decade now; he’s not _completely_ stupid. Malcolm gives him a laconic look, and it’s a good thing that they’re at the flat in Islington, because the best response to that look is a tackle, and tackles pretty much always lead to things they under no circumstances can be caught doing in the office.

They experiment. Malcolm’s got a sizeable repertoire, and Jamie makes up for his lack of bloke-on-bloke experience by trying anything without reserve. The only thing he deliberates on for a bit is letting Malcolm fuck him—that is the big one, after all—but Malcolm always seems really into it, so before long, Jamie’s curiosity wins out.

It’s an experience he won't soon forget. He's nervous as a virgin on her wedding night going in, which is a pretty apt fucking comparison, come to think of it. His brain decides to drag up memories he hasn't thought about in years (the kid that got hurt in Low Moss), and this couldn't be more different, but it still makes him wonder if this isn’t a terrible fucking idea.

Malcolm's incredibly sweet about it. That's not normally an assortment of words that go together, but Jamie doesn't know how else to describe the way Malcolm keeps kissing him, touches him, strokes his hair, teases him into relaxation by sucking him off for a while, then fingers him open and fucks him so slowly that Jamie's brain cells melt and dissolve into sparkling gay fucking fireworks.

It’s a bit like what he imagines happened to Paul on the road to Damascus, which opens up a plethora of questions about that story he’d like to put to a priest someday.

Occasionally, Malcolm shuts him out. It's no huge fucking surprise; he didn’t think that Mr Mixed Signals would completely change his ways just because they're now doing the dirty. It's still as frustrating as ever; now perhaps even more so, because these days there's a real chance of relief for his blue balls—except not on the nights when Malcolm slams out of the office looking like someone stepped on his last satsuma, or (worse) doesn't leave at all, snarling vicious malice at Jamie when he eventually asks if Malcolm’s ever planning to go home.

But that's why he keeps his flat in West Brompton. That, and to avoid the juicy gay Labour scandal spread in the _Sun_.

John Major calls the election, and Jamie figures out how to survive on two hours of sleep a night. Malcolm, he’s pretty sure, doesn’t sleep at all. The campaign stretches out over six long weeks, and Malcolm transcends his human form to become a media automaton, distilling New Labour’s message to attractive key lines which he channels into the public through the tightly controlled bottleneck that is his department. By the end of the six weeks, he consists solely of sinew, eyeballs, coffee, and hatred.

The people get the message, though. The polls look promising, and the Tories are little more than a laughing stock at this point, with Black Wednesday hanging over their heads and an incumbent PM making statements so conflicting they suggest a split fucking personality. Labour’s election night HQ is in a hotel on the Strand, a choice that reflects the Party’s optimism. Still, Malcolm doesn’t relax even when everyone around him is already partying. Remember last time, he keeps saying, until Jamie slaps him on the back of the head and tells him to fucking _look at the numbers_.

The final results (which are fucking mind-blowing) don’t come in until after they’ve already moved to a huge victory celebration on the Southbank. It culminates in a speech from the leader announcing a new dawn having broken over the United Kingdom. Malcolm’s up there on the stage, looking simultaneously livid and like he’s shitting bricks when he’s asked to the stand for a special thank-you and a hand-shake. Jamie cheers for him, together with an entire festival hall full of overtired, overjoyed politicians and press correspondents.

He wishes he could congratulate Malcolm more up close and personal, but they’re not only in public, but in the _political_ public and surrounded by press, so Malcolm’s enforcing a brief-and-casual-interaction-only rule. It makes sense, but when Jamie catches a solitary cab home in the early hours of the first day of Labour’s new rule, he doesn’t feel as celebratory as he rightfully should.

They move into Number 10. The press office is a disaster from the stone age, and once again, Malcolm shouts at people to modernise. New PC, new mobile, and this time, Jamie gets a pager, too. That seems like overkill (that’s what the mobile is for, right?), but it pays off on his more and more frequent trips to areas with less coverage than central London.

The Scottish devolution referendum and subsequent formation of a Scottish Parliament mean numerous excursions to Edinburgh. Malcolm usually sends Jamie, and tells him to take advantage and go see his mum in Motherwell. The one time Malcolm comes along, Jamie suggests they stop by together. He’ll introduce Malcolm as his boss, nothing more, and it’d just be lunch. They could use the rest of the day to head into the city, and Malcolm could tell him about his own Glasgow past, which Jamie, come to think of it, knows exactly nothing about.

Malcolm sneers at him and snaps that he’s too busy to go fucking gallivanting around Strathclyde on a trip down memory lane. Jamie’s beginning to suspect that Malcolm’s the one who started the theory popular among MP staffers, which says that Malcolm had no childhood at all and did, in fact, spring as a fully-formed adult from a pod in a gene lab.

With that in mind, it comes as a bit of a surprise when on one of the first days of the new millennium (any day now, Clinton’s going to be shamed out of the White House for having his cock sucked, but on the upside, all computers didn’t decide to give up the ghost over two missing digits) Malcolm’s not in for personal reasons. What fucking personal reasons, Jamie asks his PA, the man has no private life—except, of course, for the one Jamie’s a part of, too, but he knows to keep mum about that.

His sister’s giving birth, the PA says. The call came in the middle of the night, so everything was a bit hectic, but he’s got his mobile on him for emergencies.

Jamie did know that Malcolm has a sister; it’s the only member of his family he’ll occasionally mention. He doesn’t remember her name, though, and he had no idea that she was pregnant, or living anywhere near London.

He shoots off a text to let Malcolm know he’ll keep an eye on things, and congrats on the uncle thing, and spends all morning shouting at journalists and staffers and one startled MP in charge of DSA, who knew he was in for a bollocking for his cock-up on Radio 4, but clearly expected the _other_ Scottish member of the press department.

When the one o’clock news pass without any major disasters, Jamie gets a chance to check his phone, and that’s when he starts to worry. There’s no way Malcolm doesn’t know about the MP tosser’s idiotic misstep; the man eats early morning broadcasts for breakfast, after all. It’s weird enough that he still decided not to come in, but this complete radio silence is just out of character.

Malcolm’s mobile could be out of battery, but that’s what pay phones are for.

There’s a very easy way to find out.

It rings, so that’s that for the battery theory, but Malcolm doesn’t pick up. Instead, the call gets rejected. Seconds later, Jamie's phone chimes.

_In hosptl, cnt use phnme- whats up_

Malcolm hates texting—he says it makes him feel like a first-grader assembling words from letter blocks—but this is illegible even for Malcolm’s standards.

_Dsa fuck up. Its taken care of. U ok?_

There’s nothing for a while, and Jamie’s about to send another text—they say no news is good news, but when it comes to Malcolm, Jamie’s learned that no news usually means something terrible has happened—when his phone rings. Finally.

Malcolm’s trying not to sound out of sorts, which prompts Jamie to take the call out of the open-plan office into a deserted meeting room for privacy. He fields some questions about DSA—yes, it’s fine, yes, he’s spoken to the _Mail_ , no, it’s not big enough to go on the ten o’clock, yes, he did speak directly to Anita at the Beeb about it—but before long, he runs out of patience.

“It’s fucking _fine_ ; not even a blip on the fucking radar anymore. Let’s get to the part where you tell me what’s going on. Are you all right?”

“Jesus. I’m fucking fine.” There are noises in the background, the clatter of buses rumbling past. “I’m down at St Mary’s in Paddington. Annie—“

“ _Annie_. Right.” That’s the name of Malcolm’s sister, Jamie remembers now. “You couldn’t have told me she was going to have a bairn?”

“Well, I didn’t expect to be this involved in the process, did I.” The background noises start to waver, and Jamie’s pretty sure Malcolm’s pacing. “She used to be married to this fucking prick up in Aberdeen; they only split about a month ago. She wasn’t due for another seven weeks.”

“Seven weeks?” Jamie doesn’t know much about child birth, but that sounds like a lot. “Is the baby all right?”

“ _No_.” There it is, the source of the tightly controlled tremor in Malcolm’s voice. Jamie curses, starts pacing himself. “They’ve put her—she’s in one of those fucking glass boxes.”

“ _Fuck_.” Jamie grinds his teeth together. “What’re the doctors saying?”

“Nothing of fucking _use_ , that’s what they’re saying.” He snaps it, anger covering for distress, and Jamie makes a beeline for the door.

“I’m fucking coming up there.”

“You are _not_!” The command stops him in his tracks. “Jesus, Jamie, what good would that do? I need you in the office, you’ve got to keep an eye on things. Besides, there’s no good fucking reason for you to be here. What the fuck do you care about your boss’ sister’s bairn?”

A _lot_ , he wants to say; that’s your fucking family. But it doesn’t sound like Malcolm would appreciate his presence. He exhales, lets his shoulders slump.

“All right. I’ll stop by later, yeah?”

“Sure, whatever. Just keep a lid on the DSA thing, and make sure nothing else blows up.” The background noises diminish, and Jamie’s pretty sure Malcolm’s heading back inside the hospital building. “ _Call_ me if it does.”

“Will do.”

\------

Jamie waits out the late night news, just to be sure, and arrives in Islington around half ten. Malcolm’s home, already dressed in one of his nice crispy suit-style pyjamas. Jamie crawls into bed next to him, but Malcolm’s got his force fields up, so Jamie sticks to sneaking a hand into his. It's tolerated.

Malcolm left Annie and the wee one in the state they've been in for most of the day: recovering in Annie's case, being baked to completion in the incubator in the wee one’s case. Annie's not got a name for her yet, seems like bad luck at this point.

She's fucking _tiny_ , Malcolm says, holds his hands about a foot apart. She's not supposed to be out yet; you can tell just by looking at her.

Force field or no, Jamie goes for a snuggle after that, ignores Malcolm’s wary tension until it bleeds away into what could be either acceptance or resignation. They lie on their sides, Malcolm's back to Jamie's chest. He gets his nose stuck in Malcolm's hair, but Malcolm’s been keeping it respectably short, so it's not too bad. It does mean Jamie gets a close-up look at all the grey, of which there's quite a bit these days.

“Annie's younger?”

“Older.”

“Bit late to have a bairn, isn't it?”

“Forty-one? I don’t know. The doctors cleared her. She was fine till last night.”

Jamie frowns. “You're forty-one.”

“Good job keeping up.”

“Thought you said she was older.”

“By half an hour.”

Jamie recaps that to make sure he didn't misunderstand, then pushes himself up. “She's your fucking twin?” Malcolm turns his head, squints up at him. Dim light falls in through the window and casts his face in shadow. “You never told me you had a fucking _twin_!”

“Told you I had a sister, didn't I?”

“But not that she's your twin!”

“Why’s that important?”

“Because—because it's fucking important, Malc! Jesus.” He drops onto his back, makes the mattress bounce. “What's next, there's a secret ex-wife I don't know about?” He looks over. “Tell me there's no fucking secret ex-wife.”

“There's no fucking secret ex-wife.” He can hear the sneer in Malcolm's voice, and the duvet shifts as Malcolm turns away and pulls it over his shoulder. “You want to read me the riot act about caring and sharing, can it wait till tomorrow? I'm fucking shattered.”

“I'm not reading you the riot act.” He can sense the shields going back up, and scrambles to get close. Malcolm squirms a little, but Jamie tightens his hold and squishes his nose into Malcolm's shoulder. “I just feel like I don't fucking _know_ you, sometimes. It's been a long fucking time, Malc. I should know you've got a twin.”

“It's not vital fucking information.” Malcolm’s grown still in his arms, and Jamie wishes he could screw open the top of his head, see what's happening inside. “Don't fucking tell me you don't know me,” he says eventually. “You know more about me than anyone else.”

He sounds a bit forlorn, and it's making Jamie feel out of his depth, so he presses a kiss to the back of his head. “All right. Go to sleep, hey? I’ll stop by the hospital tomorrow. You’ve got a secret twin; I want to meet her.”

“Still no reason for you to be there.”

“Well, then I'll come up with something. Stop worrying about it.”

Malcolm's silent for so long that Jamie wonders if he's gone to sleep. “All right,” he says eventually, reluctantly.

Jamie will take what he can get. He settles down and doesn’t let go of Malcolm till the morning.

\------

Malcolm’s in the office the next day; he says he’s got work to do that can’t wait. He leaves around half three. Jamie follows him later and gets to St. Mary’s twenty minutes before the end of visiting hours.

He’s got a perfect excuse worked out for his presence—he’s got a folder with a fake press release for Malcolm to sign off on—but it’s tailor-made for journos and colleagues (not that any of them care). He wonders if he should’ve thought of one for _Annie_ , considering Malcolm skips introductions and immediately excuses himself with the folder, leaving Jamie with no indication of how much or how little he’s allowed to disclose. Fucking bastard.

Annie looks exactly like Malcolm except not; her hair’s longer and her jaw’s a bit wider. She’s not as skinny, but even paler—though that’s probably because she's just given birth. She sits across from Jamie at the room’s small table, wrapped in a hospital robe and watching him with a familiar stare.

He smiles, shakes her hand. “Jamie. Good to meet you.”

“Annie. Likewise.” She somehow manages to return the smile without showing all of her teeth. “You work with Malcolm?”

“I’m a member of his staff, aye. Used to work with him at the _Mirror_.”

“Oh, you’ve known him for a while, then.”

“Could say that. We first met back in Glasgow.”

“ _Really_.” Annie sounds surprised. “I thought he’d cut ties with everyone from back then.”

“He tried. Sort of had to track him down.” Jamie smirks, satisfied with his persistence. “It’s sort of a long story.”

Annie eyes him like he’s a rare but fascinating species. “He’s never mentioned you.”

He can’t help it; he has to laugh. “Well, it’s Malcolm, right? Last night was first I heard he’s got a twin.”

The moment he says it, he wishes he could take it back. Malcolm was here till _late_ last night; the only person he'd have spoken to afterwards would've had to be a close fucking friend. Judging by Annie’s expression, she’s picked up on it. Bollocks.

“He’s not exactly the sharing type.”

There’s a question in that, but Jamie wasn’t born yesterday. “Good thing, innit?” He smiles, innocuous. “Hate it when you meet someone and five minutes later you've got their entire life story. Run out of conversation fast, that way.”

It works; she doesn’t press any further. They exchange a few more pleasantries until Malcolm returns, keeping up appearances with his mobile still in hand. He gestures for Jamie to step outside with him.

“How’d you get on?”

“Good.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “She’s nice, yeah?”

Malcolm narrows his eyes. “What’d you tell her?”

“Nothing.”

Malcolm doesn’t even have to say anything. Jamie hates the way he can do that, say more with a flat stare than others do in an hour of talking. “I didn’t! She may have suspicions, I don’t know.”

“I can’t believe you work in fucking press relations. What’d you do, wave a rainbow flag at her?”

“Fuck you, Malc. She’s _your_ fucking sister, what did you expect? Besides—” Malcolm scans their surroundings for eavesdroppers, and Jamie checks his rising volume, “why’s it such a huge fucking problem if she knows? What’s she going to do, sell it to the _Sun_?”

“Jesus, _no_. Fuck off.” Malcolm shoots him a glare. “There is simply no _need_ for her to know.”

Jamie scoffs. “You’re a lost fucking cause, mate. It’s generally all right to share personal information with someone you shared a fucking womb with.”

“Yeah, well.” Malcolm sneers. “Generally’s about as fucking useful as a felted cockring.”

He looks a bit evasive when he says it, so Jamie’s going to be generous and chalk that up as a win. “You staying?” He’s about ready to get out of here; hospitals creep him out.

“Visiting hours are over. Give me a minute.”

He skulks around in the corridor until Malcolm comes back out; then they make their way to the taxi stand. The baby’s doing better, Malcolm tells him; the doctors say she’ll be fine. Now it’s a question of what to call her. Jamie spends the ride home making suggestions, from Coira over Siobhan to Mary, until Malcolm tells him to shut it lest he’ll tell Annie to call her Elizabeth.

\------

She ends up a Fiona, and Malcolm ends up saying yes to being her godfather. He takes it quite seriously; even asks Jamie what a godfather’s official duties are according to the Church. Jamie’s as amused as he’s flummoxed to be answering genuine inquiries about the Faith from Malcolm, and tells him that a godfather’s supposed to be guiding his godchild in questions of the spirit.

Well, that’s a fucking joke, Malcolm says, and Jamie protests. Malcolm’s guided _him_ in questions of the spirit, after all. If honest efforts to do so result in the protégé being led _away_ from the Faith, perhaps the Faith needs reforming.

Malcolm tells him that he’s getting quite good at spin, which makes Jamie feel exceptionally proud of himself.

Annie invites Jamie to the christening. Malcolm has a bit of a freak-out, but ends up agreeing to Jamie coming along as a family friend. It’s the first service Jamie’s attending in a very long time, and it makes him uneasy; the confessional looming next to the pews like a silent accusation. On the way home, he's nervous and fidgety, and eventually asks Malcolm if they’re fucking up. Maybe they should be more careful. Maybe they _are_ both condemning their eternal souls to Hell because they can’t swallow their Pride. What if it’s all true, after all?

Malcolm tells him to shut it and takes him to bed. It’s like the first time they did this, Malcolm’s touch and the feeling of him inside Jamie becoming the only thing that matters. Afterwards, Jamie pushes his face into Malcolm’s chest, shuts out the world until things are back to normal in the morning.

Another election passes without much fuss; Labour stays in power. Things are good; for the first time, Jamie feels like they’ve achieved some sort of stability.

Then Al-Qaeda fly a bunch of planes into tall buildings.

Press Relations have got a hard line they’re supposed to be selling on this: mindless terror has declared war on the free democratic world, and Britain stands shoulder to shoulder with their most powerful ally. But as it turns out, they don’t stand a snowball’s chance of controlling the media on this. Nobody in the press department gets any sleep for months, but their efforts can’t stem the rising tide of US criticism.

In daily emergency meetings, Malcolm reiterates the line, unwavering. When Jamie suggests adjusting it a little, keeping public opinion on their side by at least acknowledging that there might be a different take, Malcolm pulls him aside and hisses that this is not the time to develop a moral consciousness. With the current US climate, any sign of disagreement will break down long-established political structures and put Britain at the top of a very angry superpower’s shit list. In this instance, foreign trumps domestic. They’ll just have to muddle through and mop up the mess after.

Jamie’s not sure what it’s all got to do with morals, but he does as he’s told.

A week before boots hit the ground in Afghanistan, they fly into Washington for a final media strategy debrief. Airport security is _mental_ ; DC is big and sprawling and full of men in suits looking sombre. Patriotism gets mentioned a lot. They spend three days walking a knife’s edge, and on the flight back, Malcolm stares out the window and barely speaks a word. He looks like he’s struggling with his own moral consciousness.

They do muddle through, and survive the next election despite vicious protests against even more boots on Middle Eastern ground, even if the LibDems siphon off a sizeable chunk of ballots (what’s worse, Jamie can’t even blame the voters). For a few months, things feel almost normal: they’re back to dealing with domestic issues; Malcolm’s replacing stale MPs with new ones only to have them go stale as well before long, and Jamie’s in the press room commandeering what’s been dubbed the Caledonian Mafia by that skinny DoSAC lad Ollie. It’s only when he hears the name for the first time that Jamie realises the press department consists almost solely of Scots at this point.

On a stuffy July morning, King’s Cross blows up, and the situation gets hairy again. It becomes an in-party conflict, loyalists versus those who disagree with the decisions being made by the leadership. The PM starts dropping hints at a planned departure, and Tom Davis from Transport immediately rots a group of nut-o-philic traitors around him. Watching it all unfold makes Jamie’s blood run cold. It’s what killed the Tories; infighting, disunity. It’s the beginning of the end.

Malcolm won’t comment. He won't ever switch off anymore, either; it's like he's spending every waking second considering the next set of possible moves from his opponents. Even in private, he hardly lets his guard down anymore, and as exhilarating as it is, their sex life turns a bit discomfiting. Jamie likes a fight as much as the next person (more, perhaps), but fighting can't be the only thing you're doing. If nothing else, it’s exhausting.

The biggest thing they don’t talk about is Malcolm’s declining friendship with the PM. Malcolm never utters a bad word about the man (he’d better not, it’d make him sound like a Nutter, and Jamie _hates_ the fucking Nutters), but his expression says it all when he hears about the leader’s diary deal with Rupert Murdoch; when all of a sudden, baldy bawheed peers like Julius fucking Nicholson have more of a clue about what the leader’s thinking than the man hired to tell the public what he’s thinking.

Jamie’s not half the strategist that Malcolm is, but when Nicholson knows the departure date before they do, even he’s aware that’s _not fucking good_.

What Malcolm does next makes Jamie feel like the shocked relative of a school shooter. One moment they’re dealing with Ben Swain looking pathetic on _Newsnight_ , the next Malcolm’s assassinated the PM’s legacy and is standing over the bleeding corpse of the administration. It makes Jamie _really fucking mad_ , mad enough to give Cliff Lawton a call. That whole thing lasts about as long as a sailor on the first night of shore leave, but Malcolm still accuses him of going psychobilly John McClane on the situation. Pot fucking kettle, he wants to tell him, he’s not the only one with a Gorbals past. But it’s like trying to shout down a hurricane.

Malcolm goes to fucking Tom’s fucking breakfast meeting, and Jamie goes back to the press room. After all, he hasn’t been fired _yet_.

He didn’t think things could get any fucking worse, but when he opens his emails, that assumption turns out to be wrong. He texts Malcolm: _Urgent. Need to talk_. Nothing comes back all day, so in the evening, he drags his overtired, worn-out arse to Islington. He has a key. This can’t fucking wait.

Malcolm’s home, every hour he hasn’t slept showing on his pallid face as he’s pacing in the sitting room and shouting at someone over the phone. Jamie gets himself a drink and drops into an armchair to wait.

If looks could kill, but Jamie’s been around Malcolm long enough not to give a shit. Finally, Malcolm hangs up.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“What, now that you work for Tom, I’m not fucking welcome anymore?”

“Oh, for _fuck_ —” Malcolm sneers, slumps down onto the sofa. He looks _tired_. “You’re not fucking welcome because of the shit you pulled last night. Fucking leaking like a rusty pipe, backing a rival candidate. Do you realise the position you’ve put me in?”

He does. Malcolm managed to keep his job, but Jamie has no illusions about how thin the ice is he’s standing on: too thin to support both their weights, considering Jamie made his anti-Tom stance more than fucking clear. In hindsight, possibly not the smartest thing to do, but fuck hindsight. If Tom’s in charge, he doesn’t want to be there, anyway.

He smirks, mostly for Malcolm’s benefit. “Could give my desk to Nick; I’ll put a mouse trap in the drawer.”

“You think this is fucking funny?” Malcolm’s not amused, not even a little bit. He sits up, looks really fucking _mad_. “I put you where you are today, don’t forget that. Fuck knows where you’d be if I hadn’t, and you’re going to throw it away over—what? What is your fucking problem, anyway?”

“Tom’s a fucking traitor.” He clenches his jaw; he _hates_ the guy. “First thing he did when he heard the departure rumours was collect MPs. He’s the reason the Party’s all over the place these days, he’s—”

“Oh, don’t be so fucking naïve.” The derision in Malcolm’s voice makes him swallow the rest. “The Party’s all over the place because some really fucking hard decisions had to be made, and not everyone agrees with the decisions that _were_ made. Hell, _I_ don’t fucking agree with all the decisions that were made.”

“What’re you saying?”

Malcolm leaps to his feet, starts pacing. “We were meant to be the fucking good guys, Jamie. Instead, we’ve gone and started not one war, but _two_ , and to top it off, we’re on our way to turning Britain into Nazi fucking Germany!”

“We are _not_. The Terrorism Act legislation was necessary in the face of the new—”

“ _Don’t_ fucking feed me the line. I wrote that fucking line, Jamie. Jesus _Christ_ ,” and his fingers dig into his hair. “Are you really this fucking stupid? You’re right in the middle of it all; do you not see what’s happening?” He doesn’t really want an answer. “We keep pretending that we’re acting in the interest of the people, but what’s really happening is that we’re outrunning a fucking avalanche of _shit_ that’s been piling up for the past _two decades_. Oh, but we weren’t in charge back then; _we_ didn’t bomb fucking Libya. Boo-fucking-hoo, turns out being in government means you get stuck with all the _crap_ the idiots before you fucked up, and chances are you’re going to be just as useless as they were, because turns out that you, too, are just a gang of fucking self-important _wankers_!”

Jamie doesn’t know what to say. He’s never seen Malcolm like this, and he’s reminded of another conversation they had years and years ago, about truth and power and fucking summer houses in Cornwall. _Fuck_.

Malcolm scrubs his palms over his face, returns to the sofa. “Shit. I can probably get you in as a staffer somewhere. Won’t be exciting, but it’ll pay the bills. Or you could get back in with the papers, would be good to have you somewhere I can—”

“I’ve been offered a job.”

If Jamie weren’t preoccupied, he’d be a bit insulted at how surprised Malcolm looks. “You have?”

“Aye.” That’s what was in the email earlier today, what he came here to talk about. “Remember Liza?”

“That blonde bird from the State Department?”

“That’s the one. She sent me an email. Looks like she’s in with the crowd around that junior Senator from Illinois everybody likes so much. She said they could use some of what she’s calling ‘the British ’97 magic’ for the primaries campaign.”

“Fuck _me_.” Malcolm drops back into the sofa, stares for a while. “You’re going to America?”

“I don’t fucking know, Malc. _No_. I don’t want to.”

“Why the fuck not?”

It’s been so many fucking years, but flippant shit like that from Malcolm still hurts. “Because of _you_ , you stupid prick. You’re not going to come with me, are you?”

Malcolm opens his mouth, closes it, gets to his feet and paces over to his posh fucking decanter to get himself a drink. He leans against a bookshelf, glass in hand, and points a finger at Jamie. “You can’t think like that.”

“Like what?” He’s already mad; he knows he’s going to hate what Malcolm says next.

“Like we’re fucking _married_. We’re not fucking married, Jamie. We never will be.”

He was right, he fucking _hates_ it. He gets to his feet as well. “It’s not about—why’s it matter? There’s one reason only we’re not, right?”

The silence after that drags on for too long. Something in Jamie’s chest curls into a ball, hot and tight and painful, and he’s too exhausted to keep a lid on it. His throat clicks. “Fuck. _Malcolm_. Say something.”

“Don’t fucking look at me like that.” Malcolm’s voice isn’t steady, either, and he drains his drink. “You have to go. It’s fucking America. You’ll never get a chance like this again.”

“But—”

“No _buts_ ,” and Malcolm crosses the room in two steps, crowds into Jamie and digs his BlackBerry from his pocket. “Answer the fucking email. Tell them you’ll take it.”

The phone feels heavy in Jamie’s hand, the buttons too small under his fingers. The email’s halfway down in his inbox, a few cheerful, American lines of ‘wouldn’t it be great’ and ‘drop me a line’. He stares at them.

“It’s only a year,” Malcolm says. “Just the campaign. By the time you’re back, I’ll be back on top. I’ll be able to put you on my staff again.”

“Right.” A year’s a fucking long time, but he’s waited longer for Malcolm. “Okay, yeah. I’ll take it.”

“Good. Tell _them_.”

He does, sits back down in the chair and types out the email with Malcolm perched on the armrest. The phone makes its little swooshing sound as it sends. He stares at the tiny screen, feeling every hour of the forty he’s been up in his bones.

A set of arms come around his shoulders; fingers slip into his hair. “It’s all right,” he hears Malcolm say as he leans into him. “It’ll be okay.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most canon-heavy chapter; it deals with series 3 and 4. Again, you should be fine either way, but if you find yourself feeling confused, don't worry—after this, there's no more canon left to cover. (And besides, even of the people who've seen the show, anyone who claims to _really_ understand every intricate detail of what happens in series 3 and 4 is most likely lying.)
> 
> Enjoy! And as always, let me know what you think. :)

Three weeks later, Jamie boards a plane to Washington.

Malcolm accompanies him to the airport (fuck anyone who wants to comment), but Jamie tells him to fuck off after he’s checked his bags. They already said their goodbyes earlier today in Malcolm’s bed, and every night the past few weeks. You’d think it’d have got easier, but the opposite is true.

At the airport, it’s just a handshake, and an awkward one at that. The departure hall is huge and brightly lit, so Malcolm stands a far way back and watches Jamie head through security at a distance. He loses sight of him after he passes the ID check, and forces himself to leave after a few more minutes. Jamie’s a big boy, he’ll be fine. Malcolm’s got work to do at Number 10.

It’s gruelling, painstaking work. With the excitement over the new leadership, the polls surge, just long enough for Tom to decide (against Malcolm’s adamant advice) that a snap election would be in nobody’s interest. It feels like fucking karma when immediately after the announcement, a recession starts to hit.

It’s the first one in over ten years, and the first one during Labour’s reign. They suffer savage losses in the local elections. Twenty-four percent, he tells Jamie over the phone, that’s their projected share in the national vote. How the fuck does Tom think they’re going to survive a general election _now_?

Fucking Biggles, Jamie says, he’s not thinking at all. He’s too busy working out how to find his arse with a map and a neon fucking signpost.

Jamie’s having more luck on the other side of the Atlantic. The young Illinois Senator gets confirmed as the Democratic candidate, and Malcolm spends the night of November 4 in front of the telly, watching one state on the CNN map after the other go blue. Jamie calls him in the early hours of the morning, mental with excitement. They did it. They fucking _did_ it! Yes, America, _YES WE CAN_! Malcolm doesn’t say much, just lies in bed and listens to Jamie shout and swear and gush with the elated pay-off of months of largest-scale campaigning.

“I hope you’re somewhere fucking private,” he says eventually, smirking. “As I remember, Americans aren’t too fond of strong fucking language.”

“You have no fucking _clue_.” Jamie laughs. “They like me in the strategy room, but they’re always fucking nervous when they’ve got to take me out in public.”

“I know that feeling.”

“Fuck off,” and he can hear the grin in Jamie’s voice. He slides a hand over to the side of the bed that’s been empty for over a year now.

“You did good,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”

“Wish you were fucking here.”

Leave it to Jamie to voice things better left unsaid. “Yeah, well, I’ve got my own country to run.”

There’s nothing for a while, and Malcolm _hates_ this. He could rant to Jamie for days about the idiots he’s got to work with, and Jamie’s always got good stories to tell about the campaign, or about this or that bizarre aspect of the American way of life. But everything else, words don’t seem to do justice. That used to be fine, but at four thousand miles’ distance, words are pretty much the only option.

“You’re not coming back, are you.” It’s not really a question.

“Shit, Malc, I don’t know.” He can hear shuffling, the clatter of glass against glass, and he pictures Jamie in a posh fucking DC hotel room, dishevelled suit and tie askew, pulling open the minibar fridge. “They want me to stay on, Liza’s told me as much. Doesn’t sound like I’d be coming back to much, in London.”

He knows Jamie’s talking about the Party, its poor performance in the polls, about the absence of a strong leader. But fuck if at this point it doesn’t feel like the Party and Malcolm are becoming interchangeable. He was twenty-two when Thatcher came into office. To most people he works with, ‘Winter of Discontent’ sounds like a fucking George R. R. Martin reference.

“Malc?”

“Still here.” He rolls onto his side, crumples the pillow into a ball. “Stay where you are. You’ve got a real chance to change things. Close Guantanamo, health care for everyone, all that good shit. Over here, all you’d be doing is mop up the PM’s piss as he keeps missing the fucking urinal.”

“I could ask around, you know. For you.” A hiss as Jamie opens his drink, and Malcolm _knows_ he’s doing it with his fucking teeth; he always does, the fucking luddite. “Or you could. You’ve got contacts; it’s not like you’re not connected.”

“And do what? Have you seen the American national press? No, because they don’t fucking _have_ one. I’d be useless over there.”

“Come off it, Malc. If I’m not useless, you wouldn’t fucking be, either.”

“You’re good with people. People are the same everywhere. Me, I’m a media guy. Media’s very fucking country-specific.” He knows his limits, even if Jamie doesn’t. “It’s fine. Just—stay where you fucking are. You’re doing a good job.”

“Yeah.” Jamie grunts, unconvinced. “Thanks for killing my fucking buzz, Malc. Always a pleasure.”

“You know me, more personal charm than the fucking Grim Reaper.”

“No fucking kidding.”

“I’ve got to hit the hay.” It’s as true as it’s an excuse to get out of the call. “I’m fucking five hours ahead of you, in case you’d forgot.”

“Well, don’t let me fucking keep you.”

Jamie doesn’t just sound unconvinced, he sounds _cross_ , and that’s not fucking fair. Malcolm’s not the one who took a job in another country. “Night, Jamie.”

“Night.”

\------

Malcolm decides that it's time to move house.

He owns the flat in Islington, bought it at a time when it made sense to buy real estate. It's big enough, especially considering he's never fucking home. But it's full of memories, so much that it makes him want to go home even less at the end of the day, and that's just fucking stupid. Rent it out, use the proceeds to pay off somewhere else, problem solved. He doesn't even have to deal with any of it; Sam finds him all the agents, lawyers, and movers he needs.

The movers fucking _touch his stuff_ , and he hates it. Changing habitat is really fucking stressful; he doesn't like having to think about where everything is. But he finds a nice house fairly close to his old neighbourhood, and it's all said and done in a day. Except for the boxes, of course. It takes him weeks to sort through it all, and a lot of it goes in the bin.

Fucking memories, who needs them.

Fi gets her own room upstairs. It's not really necessary; she and Annie live in Hatfield now, only about an hour away. Annie’s found herself a job at an ad agency (she does graphic design, which seems to be in high demand), and is really fucking busy all the time. They rarely stay overnight, if they visit at all. But it's worth it just to watch Fi decorate her room with pictures of dolphins, of an odd-looking cartoon character named Stitch, and with those big swirly blob-of-colour paintings she does. Malcolm's no expert, and he may be a bit biased, but he happens to think they're better than most stuff they show at Tate Modern.

Annie makes him get rid of his 1964 edition of the _Encyclopædia Britannica_ (he got it used in 1975) and uses the empty shelf to put up a collection of photos—Fi, herself, one of their mum, and one of Jamie that he’s pretty sure she got off the internet. He leaves it up for a week before he stuffs it face-down in a drawer. It’s a stupid photo, anyway; Jamie’s wearing that dead-eyed smile he does when he’s trying to look like a respectable person.

There’s a reshuffle, and the best thing about it is that it gets rid of Hugh Abbot. The man overstayed his welcome for so long that it felt like he was trying to become part of the furniture. To his own surprise, Malcolm likes his replacement. She’s as useless as the proverbial donkey tits, but he’s never met an MP who wasn’t. Unlike other ministers, though, she seems to be somewhat aware of her shortcomings.

DoSAC becomes his place of refuge, as sad as it is to say. At Number 10, the happy communal circle jerk has turned into a circle backstab, and every day, he’s dragging bloody corpses out the back, thanking the Great Deity of Political Intrigue that it’s not his own. DoSAC’s paper jams and data loss and botched Radio 5 interviews; entertaining small fry. He catches himself fantasising about firing Terri and taking over from her, and swears to himself that for the rest of his life, he’ll pretend he never had that thought.

On his birthday, Jamie calls. Malcolm’s at the BBC and misses it. Later, he sits on his new sofa and stares at his phone. He hasn’t spoken to Jamie in what must be coming up to four months. He wouldn’t know what to say to him. He doesn’t want any more happy fucking birthday wishes.

He dials eventually, but it’s Annie he calls. Fifty, hey? Annie’s cheerful and giggly and clearly buzzed, but she takes the time out of her day to ask him how he’s doing. Fine, he says, just fine. Have a good night.

Jamie texts a bit later, but as it’s past midnight, Malcolm leaves him thinking that he’s asleep.

\------

A circle jerk isn’t over until everyone’s had their turn, and it’s about to be his. They bring in Steve Fleming to do the deed, which is appropriate for a government of fucking Nutters. He will never know if Steve deliberately fucked up the crime stats to pin it on him, or if Steve’s just a moron who got very fucking lucky. Either way, the BBC broadcasts his resignation, and when he shouts at Number 10 that they’ll _fucking see him again_ , he has no clue how to follow through on that threat.

If there was ever a time to pack his bags and go to America, this is it. But the date of his and Jamie’s last call (too many months ago for Malcolm to want to count), and Jamie’s last text ( _fucking twat, stop fucking avoiding me_ ) make him hesitate. He may have picked up the phone eventually, but before he can do so, Rt. Hon. the Lord Julius Nicholson of Arnage invites him for a curry.

It’s official: he _is_ the fucking Party. With Malcolm gone, they can’t even insulate their golden fucking calf from the heat of the fire they started themselves. Fuck Tom, fuck Dan fucking Miller and his delusions of grandeur. Malcolm’s _back_ , and it’s ride or die: they’re going to have that snap election, after all, and they’re going to _fuck_ the polls right into their tight little spinster arsehole.

He’s at his desk in his office ( _his_ fucking office, not Steve Fleming’s, not Nick fucking Hanway’s, not Cal Richard’s or Stewart Pearson’s, _his_ ) when Sam puts a call through and refuses to tell him who it is. He says no, Sam, _no_ , he’s got an election to plan, he’s not got time for games, but she connects before he can hang up.

It’s Jamie, and he really should’ve known. Sam wouldn’t pull this for anyone else.

“Hey, Malc. What in the ever-loving blue perfect _fuck_ are you up to?”

“ _Jamie_.” He leans back in his chair. Jamie wants a fight. That, he can do. “How’s it going in the land of ice cream cakes and double-shot caramel frappuccinos with three extra scoops of whipped cream? Are you using one of those electric scooters to get around yet?”

“Very fucking funny. How about you, you’ve been featured in _New Scientist_ yet? See the amazing two-dimensional man, can’t fucking see him when he turns to the side.”

“Nah, you know me, I haven’t got time for fucking vanity shoots. I’ve got a _real_ government to run.”

“Aye, run into the fucking ground. Was it you who called this election?”

“I don’t call elections, Jamie. The Prime Minister calls elections. Basic stuff; I thought you’d know this. Didn’t you use to work here?”

“ _Fuck_ —” That’s the thing about Jamie, he never holds out for long in a fight. “I saw your resignation, Malc! You were _out_! How the fuck did you get back in? And _why_? Just to fuck them right back?”

He jumps to his feet, starts pacing. This office is _huge_ , it’s made for pacing. Like fuck is he ever going to give it up. “This isn’t about some petty fucking vendetta, Jamie. Do you even know who you’re talking to?”

“Thought I was talking to you.”

“You’re talking to the government of Great fucking Britain and Northern Ireland. You’re talking to the only person in Number 10 fucking Downing Street who has _any_ fucking clue what he’s doing. Everyone in here is a walking fucking lobotomy! They’re going to have to clean up their act, because if they don’t, they’re going to fucking _find out_ what it’s like to be in opposition!”

“So they cut you out, and you’re going to teach them a lesson. Sounds like a petty fucking vendetta to me.”

“Fuck off.” There’s stars at the edge of his vision. Sometimes, he does worry that he’s just going to stroke out one day. At least it’ll be quick. “You never had any fucking initiative of your own. No wonder you ended up in the land of fucking convenience.”

“For fuck’s sake, Malc! _You_ ’re the one who told me to take this job!”

“Case in fucking point. Don’t ever call me again.”

He disconnects the call, but hitting the red button isn’t enough, so he goes into his contacts and deletes Jamie’s number. He deletes their message history as well, and is about to delete their email chain when he realises how fucking stupid that would be. He might need it someday.

He wants to throw the phone, but it takes forever to request a new one, so he returns to his desk instead, tears the skin off a satsuma and grinds the juicy flesh to mush between his teeth. He’s got work he can channel all of this into, after all.

\------

They end up with a hung parliament.

If he's entirely honest, that's the best result they could've hoped for. He takes consolation in the fact that it probably wouldn't have gone any better if they'd waited out their term.

They don't want him in the room for coalition negotiations, but they've got little choice. Maybe he _is_ the man people just hate these days, but he's also the man nobody can lift a finger without. Either way, it makes no fucking difference. The LibDems decide that allying themselves with Satan is better than compromising on a few doe-eyed ideals that'll never see fruition anyway. JB’s fucking _lying_ to you, he shouts at their limp-dicked leader. You'll get nothing out of this, except the warm, fuzzy, and completely _useless_ feeling of having been in government in fucking name only.

They tell him he needs to work on his negotiating techniques. He flips them off and tells them to come talk to him when they realise they’ve bought a fucking bridge in Brooklyn.

The opposition offices are as bleak and depressing as he remembers. Also bleak and depressing are the Party's leadership options. After Tom resigns, Dan Miller is the logical choice to be taking up the baton, but Miller comes with Fleming, and no way is Malcolm going to let that happen. His remaining choices aren't really choices at all, so he ends up going with personal sympathies.

Nicola’s really no worse than anyone else. Or that's what he thinks when he endorses her for leadership.

Two years later, she’s fucking up everything from leading the Shadow Cabinet to _walking_ , and Malcolm finds himself agreeing with fucking Ben “The Blinkster” Swain. He takes it as a sign of the Apocalypse; yet another one, after Steve Jobs’ death, the London riots, and Twitter. But Ben’s right, Nicola has to go. Turns out being aware of your own shortcomings is only a good thing if you then immediately dismiss them.

Dan Miller’s always been a bit of a droid; Fleming or no, he should be a suitable receptacle for the kind of vehicular Party leadership Malcolm’s been practicing these past years. Huddled in a cupboard conspiring with Miller, and later visiting Ollie in hospital, the news ticker in the back of Malcolm’s head keeps scrolling names: Dick Cheney, Thomas Wolsey, Otto von Bismarck. Men who exploited their government’s lack of leadership to further their own power; men whom history remembers as selfish and evil. Oh, speaking of evil, what about Joseph Goebbels? He _was_ the original spin doctor, after all.

Some days, Malcolm wishes there were a way to remove parts of his brain, cut them out like a tumour and get rid of all the useless, repetitive, hyperbolic _bullshit_.

Ollie comes through on the dirt on Nicola. He reminds Malcolm so much of Jamie it’s unsettling. There’s not even a good reason for it; Brixton’s not Motherwell by a long shot, and where Jamie shouts, Ollie whines and squirms and whimpers. Malcolm supposes it’s the way he keeps coming back for more, the way nothing Malcolm throws at him will send him packing for long—and the way how sometimes, Ollie will take what Malcolm throws and throw it right back, send Malcolm ducking for cover and feeling like he’s met a fucking equal for once.

It makes things a bit uncomfortable. Malcolm’s not a fucking paedophile, it’s just that it’s been a really long fucking time, and it’s nice to be able to have a conversation now and again that’s not just platitudes, pleasantries, or shouting. He briefly considers shafting Ollie together with Nicola just to be rid of him, but then he remembers Dick Cheney, and doesn’t.

\------

Over the course of his career, Malcolm’s learned that you can light quite a few matches in a political sawmill before anything catches on fire. Unlike wood chips, politicians are too fucking dense to be particularly combustible. He supposes he should have expected this particular inferno in the current political climate, though. A Tory PM (and only a Tory PM) _would_ come up with an idea as ludicrous as a fucking inquiry into leaking.

Still, he’s feeling quite confident. Everyone else is going with brazen perjury; he, on the other hand, has a plan. Leaking is government fucking practice, it’s more or less his job description, and even the likes of Lord Goolding, Baroness Sureka, and their two knobheaded B-Sides can’t pretend otherwise.

He only straight-up lies once. Compared to everyone else, he thinks that puts him in a low fucking margin.

Watching the inquiry provides him with a nasty sort of vindication. It’s always nice to know he’s still got it when it comes to predicting who’ll be loyal, and who’ll stab him in the back. They all make a tit of themselves, but Terri Coverly’s testimony is the only one that makes him sweat.

They call him back, and he sweats a bit more. They’ve been fucking around for near on two weeks at this point; here’s hoping that they simply have some follow-up questions about the art of leaking.

The moment they show the fucking photo from the fucking _Mirror_ , he knows he’s done for. The photo proves _nothing_ , of course; him having these numbers says nothing about who leaked what to anyone. It’s a perfect tabloid headline, though. It’s fucking _**Freddie Starr Ate My Hamster**_. He’s spun stories like this all his life, he knows how it’s done: line up the circumstances and watch the assumptions fall on whoever’s at the centre.

He’s fucking got himself to blame. Admitting to leaking at an _inquiry into leaking_ may have been the dumbest thing he’s done all his life. The press are having a fucking blast with it, too. So many ways to turn into a pun the fact that his last name sounds sort of like a swear word.

He walks through Westminster feeling like the spectre at the feast. Weirdly enough, the thought of leaving for good doesn’t even bother him that much. It’ll be nice to realise that there is somewhere else he can be. _Anywhere_ else.

He’d rather it weren’t prison, though.

It’s about two weeks before he hears anything. At first, it seems like good news. They’re dropping the Tickell thing; the evidence they’ve got is fucking laughable, and they’re not finding anything else. Malcolm’s about to breathe a sigh of relief when his contact (Sam’s friend Niya, an assistant in Matthew Hodge’s office whom Malcolm insulated from some staff changes a while back) tells him that that’s not all they’re looking into.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Scapegoating him for the leak of Tickell’s medical records, that’s the reason for this entire spectacle. Why would they come after him for anything _else_?

“They’ve got this document from the _Guardian_ ,” Niya says. “It’s an email you forwarded; something about PFI?”

Malcolm is silent for a few long moments. “You have got to be joking.”

“They’re all quite excited, so I thought you should know.”

“You have got to be fucking _joking_!”

“I—”

It’s not the poor girl’s fault. He tells her as much before he hangs up, drops the phone on the desk. Head in hands, he sits there, too worn out to even be properly mad.

One lie. _One_ fucking lie, and they’re going to hang him with it. How much do they give you for perjury these days?

He supposes he’ll fucking find out.

\------

The day he goes to get arrested happens to coincide with Halloween, which is fucking appropriate for the sort of horror show it ends up being. The last one in a long line of traitors, Ollie lets him down, and as he stands on the stoop of the police station facing a sea of cameras, he finds that his words have deserted him, too.

At home, he shuts all the curtains, turns off all the lights, and tells his lawyer to fuck off. The first court hearing’s not going to be for a while; perjury’s a crown court offence, they’ll take their sweet fucking time to schedule him. Talking strategy can wait. Or, he tells the lawyer, just come up with a fucking good one and leave him out of it. It’s what he pays that unholy fee for, after all.

Once he’s alone, he buries himself under a throw on the sofa and doesn’t move again. He’s fucking _done_ with it all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second-to-last chapter! This one's got all the drama; then things'll start to wrap up. Enjoy!

It’s still dark out when the clinking of breaking glass startles Malcolm awake. A window, by the sound of it. Probably in the kitchen; probably the door to the terrace.

His heart’s his throat; that’s the _back_ of the house. It’s either a numbskull journalist in need of a lesson in professional boundaries, or it’s a fucking home invasion. He presses deeper into the sofa, pulls the blanket over his head, and holds very still. The room’s dark; the curtains are still shut. If he’s quiet, perhaps they’ll just take what they want and be on their way.

The lights turn on and ruin _that_ fucking hope. There’s nothing nearby he could use as a weapon, just pillows. Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_. Yesterday, he caught himself idly wondering if he’d even be all that bothered if he died at this point. Now that he’s got violent intruders in his home, he’s finding that he’s _really fucking bothered_.

There’s rustling, some footsteps. They stop; then a voice. “Aw, for fuck’s sake.”

He knows that voice. It’s not fear that’s paralysing him now; he’d know that voice _anywhere_. There’s more muttering, and he shoves the blanket aside; pushes himself up to look over the back of the sofa.

Jamie’s backlit by the ceiling light. He’s standing in Malcolm’s kitchen, larger than fucking life, fiddling with something on the sleeve of his jacket.

Malcolm’s not been doing too brilliantly coming up with responses to, well, anything. This is no different.

It’s a few moments before Jamie notices him. “Malc!” A hand comes up in a ditzy fucking wave. “Didn’t realise you were down here.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Gets up, comes around the sofa, and advances on Jamie. Every step replaces some of his shock with outrage; at about three feet’s distance, he’s built up enough to muster a response. “Did you just fucking _break_ into my _house_?”

“Right, yeah.” Jamie glances over his shoulder, the light illuminating the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. “Sorry about that. Couldn’t come in the front because of the press, and I don’t think you heard your phone.”

“ _Clearly_.” He’s got a lot of outrage now, and it wants out, but there are also a lot of other things that want out. Eventually, he goes with the obvious. “Jamie, what the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

\------

Malc’s pissed, and it’s really fair enough. Jamie _did_ break his window. It’s just that it was the only way he could see of getting in. He wasn’t going to sit on the stoop for hours; he just got off a seven-hour flight, and he’s not twenty-five anymore.

Besides, ever since he got that call, a part of him has deemed every second of his journey back to London as one too many. He wasn’t worried, not really. Though looking at Malcolm, perhaps he should’ve been.

“You look like utter _shite_.” He pulls off his jacket. He cut the sleeve when he broke the window; it’s going to have to go in the bin. “How old _are_ you these days, fifty-four going on fucking eighty-nine?”

Malcolm just keeps staring. He’s in rumpled shirtsleeves and trousers, bare feet on the polished floor of his new kitchen (it’s as shiny as the old kitchen, only more state-of-the-fucking-art). As always, his hair’s too short, thinning out at the temples and standing up in between. It’s like his face is just eyebrows and nose these days; he’s been mostly spared the old-man curse of jowls. Lucky bastard.

He looks really fucking tired. There’s a sagging depression around his eyes and lips that wasn’t there the last time Jamie saw him. Granted, it’s been a few years.

The jacket goes on the counter. “I’m here because Sam called me. She told me you got arrested.”

“What the fuck are you doing talking to Sam?”

He’d forgot how more often than not, talking to Malcolm is like pulling teeth—not his, but your own, and without anaesthesia. “I’m not allowed to talk to _you_ , am I? _Don’t ever fucking call me again_ , well, all right, I’ll call your fucking PA, then. Usually, she’s got a better idea of what’s going on with you than you do, anyway.”

“You’ve been fucking _spying_ on me?”

He steps up to Malcolm, shoves a finger into his chest. “Think very fucking carefully about what you’re saying, all right? I’m here because I like you. God knows why, but I _do_ , and it sounds like I’m the only fucking one. Do you really want to burn the last fucking bridge you’ve got off your fucking paranoia island? ‘cos mate, I’m _this close_ to leaving you there to rot.”

The silence that follows is too absolute for central fucking London. It’s like reality got swallowed around them; all that’s left is him, Malcolm, and this giant, empty house that Malcolm’s decided to call home.

A seagull caws on the terrace and breaks the illusion. Malcolm deflates.

“No,” he says. “I don’t—” He interrupts himself, breathes. “Sorry. I’m fucking _sorry_ , Jamie.”

“Hey.” Malcolm sounds shaky, like he’s about to fucking _cry_ , and that is _not_ what Jamie wanted. “Hey, hey. It’s all right, yeah?” He doesn’t think about it, just goes in for a hug. It’s a hint as to how bad things are when Malcolm doesn’t even tense up. “It’ll be all right. We’ll sort it.”

\------

A bit later, they’re on the sofa, each with a cup of coffee. Malcolm’s not close to tears anymore; he’s just awkward and a wee bit skittish. He’s tucked himself against the armrest, a throw pulled across his lap. He still looks like he wouldn’t be out of place in an old people’s home.

“Don’t you have a president to get re-elected?”

“’s going to happen with or without me. Molly the Mormon’s a fucking joke, he doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Good.” Malcolm takes a drink. “That’s good. You’ve done good work.”

He knows he has. It’s not what he came here to talk about. “You want to tell me what the fuck’s been going on?”

He’s prepared to fight Malcolm on this, beat the answers out of him if he has to. But Malcolm just sighs. “How much do you know?”

“I know you resigned for, like, _two seconds_ in ’09, and then you pulled a stupid snap election stunt that got you kicked out of Whitehall.”

“We’d’ve lost anyway,” and there’s a bit of fire back in Malcolm’s voice, a bit of the old annoyance at having to point out the obvious. “We were royally _fucked_. Besides, we’d’ve stayed on if the LibDem wankers hadn’t shafted us.”

True, but that’s another conversation. “Well, _anyway_ , for some reason you put that wet blanket Murray in charge, who lasted about as long as a damp fag, and then JB totally lost his mind and started an inquiry into leaking. And then you got arrested. For leaking some medical records, or summat?”

“I did not fucking leak them.” Malcolm glares daggers at him. “I had the fucking info. Of course I did, _everybody_ did. It’s as likely that it was me as it is that it was anybody _fucking_ else.”

“All right. I only know what they’re putting in the papers.”

“Fucking vultures.” Malcolm digs the heel of his hand into one eye. “I leaked an email to the _Guardian_. It had nothing to do with Tickell, except that Nicola briefly supported the housing bill that led to _that_ fucking disaster. I was trying to get rid of her. It’s what I had, so I used it.”

“That’s a bit thin, though, no?” Leaking government email isn’t strictly legal, but Malcolm’s smart enough to make it look like an accident. No subject, no body, and if you get caught, you say that you didn’t mean to send it to John at the _Guardian_ , you meant to send it to John at the FCO; besides, you didn’t even know you’d sent it; as you can see, the email wasn’t even finished. Standard fucking practice, nothing a court would ever pursue.

Malcolm takes another drink, rubs his forehead. “I said under oath that I hadn’t leaked it.”

“Right.” He sips his own coffee. Bitter liquid clogs in his throat. “Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Jamie watches Malcolm, a scrawny figure huddled in the corner of the sofa. It’s been five fucking years, featuring a change of government, a massive upheaval in broadcast and news media, and the creation of fucking Ed Balls Day—but none of that matters. It never did. Every time he meets Malcolm anew, it’s picking up exactly where they left off.

He tilts his head towards the stairs. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

Malcolm squints. “Go where?”

“Wherever in this giant mausoleum of a house you keep your fucking bedroom.”

For a moment, it seems like Malcolm’s going to protest. Then he gets to his feet. “This way.”

\------

He leads Jamie up the stairs and down the hallway. It _is_ a big fucking house, too big for just one person. The bedroom’s pristine; the cleaner’s been through the other day, and he spent last night on the sofa.

Not that this room ever sees any action besides Malcolm’s habitual tossing and turning.

Jamie sits on the foot of the bed and pulls off his shoes, crinkling the throw and dislodging the pillows. He’s wearing jeans and a light jumper with a line of buttons at the collar. A _Henley_ , if Malcolm knows his fashion terminology. It looks nice.

“You’ve got a new bed.”

Malcolm fiddles with the buttons of his own shirt. “Old one didn’t fit with the room.”

“Didn’t have that classy funeral home flair, did it?”

“All right, Jamie, I get it. You hate the fucking house.” He chucks the shirt into the laundry basket, and doesn’t want to get undressed any further. Right now, he’s still covered, vest and pants, and he likes it that way. He’s not got any younger these past five years.

“I don’t hate it.” Jamie pulls off his jumper without hesitation. He’s got no reason to fucking hesitate. He’s not got younger, either, but apparently, he went the route of the fitness-obsessed in America. “I just don’t know why you bought it.”

“Fuck knows.” Malcolm pulls the throw off the bed. “Perhaps I needed a change.”

Jamie throws him a sour look; then his brow crinkles. “You planning to keep those on?”

Jamie’s more or less naked now, a skimpy pair of not boxers, not briefs, but fucking _boxer briefs_ covering the last bits. Malcolm’s eyes follow the outline of his shoulders. “Sort of, yeah,” he says. “For now.”

Concern follows confusion on Jamie’s face, and he doesn’t _want_ this right now; he doesn’t want to talk. “Get _in_.” He flips back the covers. “Stop trying to think so fucking hard.”

Jamie does as he’s told, and then they lie there. Malcolm's on his back, staring at the ceiling because he's not sure where else to look. Jamie next to him does his best impression of a human furnace, and it's so fucking familiar.

“Malc—”

“Shh,” he cuts him off. “Shut up. Give us your hand.”

Jamie does, and he slides it underneath his shirt to rest on his bare stomach. The touch is warm, heavy, and a bit clammy. It's _touch_. He hasn't been touched in a long fucking time.

He lets his eyes slip close, edges closer to the middle of the bed. Closer to Jamie, who's catching on quickly, bless him.

“Jeez, Malc.” There’s annoyance as well as concern, which makes it bearable. The fingers on his stomach move in tiny strokes. “You're a stupid fucking cunt, you know that?”

“You weren't here.” It's as simple as that. Fingers slip into his hair, and he shudders.

“Yeah, well, I’m not—never mind.”

“You’re not what?”

His eyes open. Jamie looks really fucking _evasive_. Defensive, too. “I’m not the sole single person in the fucking world, Malc.”

The implications take a moment to sink in. It’s not like he didn’t suspect, on some level even know. But Jamie sounds so fucking _flippant_ about it.

He grabs his wrists, wrenches them up, and gets on top of him. “Who’d you fuck in America?”

“Get _off_!”

Jamie squirms, and he pins him down harder. Jamie’s younger, but Malcolm’s _madder_. “Tell me _who_!”

“You’ve got _no right_ to fucking ask me that!” Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps Jamie’s a bit mad, too. “I don’t owe you celibacy, Malc, I still fucking _don’t_!”

“It was Liza, wasn’t it? That blonde fucking cunt, that’s why you decided to stay.”

Jamie manages to dislodge him, and the tables turn quickly. Jamie yanks him around, presses up behind him, and wrenches his arm back. Malcolm swears. “You cheating fucking _prick_ —”

“We’re not married.” Jamie’s voice in his ear, low and sharp. “We’re not fucking married, and we never will be, _right_?”

“ _Fuck off_!” Malcolm bares his teeth, tries to free his wrist, but all that does is make his shoulder scream in protest.

“It wasn’t Liza,” Jamie says. “It was a _bloke_ , Malc. Fuck, maybe I shagged my way through the entire District of fucking Columbia; men, women, and everything in between. What’re you going to do about it?”

“You didn’t.” Squirming doesn’t make it better, but he wants this to _stop_ ; he wants to go back to just _touching_. “Fuck, Jamie—tell me you didn’t. _Please_.”

That does it. Jamie lets go, and Malcolm curls forward with a strangled gasp, hunches his aching shoulder. A hand brushes against his back, and it’s gentle, but it still makes him jump. He pulls away, sits on the side of the bed that’s usually empty, his back against the headrest.

“I didn’t. I— _shit_ , Malc.” Jamie’s all wide-eyed contrition. “None of them were you, all right? None of them were—this,” and Jamie waves a hand between them, as if ‘this’ were on perfectly clear, unanimous terms. “Five years is a long fucking time. I wasn’t going to spend it all on my own, was I?”

Malcolm kneads his shoulder. It doesn’t even hurt anymore, but he’s twitchy and wants something to do with his hands. “Yeah, well. It’s not that fucking easy for everyone.”

“It’s not this fucking _hard_ for everyone, either.”

Experience suggests that’s probably true. He’s not going to say as much, but Jamie’s always been good at getting it anyway. He shuffles over, reaches out, and Malcolm leans his head against Jamie’s nicely sculpted, middle-aged American urban professional chest. “And you ask me why I’ve got trust issues,” he mutters, tension bleeding into relief as Jamie puts his arms around him.

“I’ve never fucking asked you that.”

They stay like that for a while, Jamie’s hand back in his hair. Eventually, Malcolm noses Jamie’s chest, then his neck, then works his way up to kissing his jawline. It gets a bit awkward at that point, but after some shuffling around, Malcolm’s on his knees as well and goes in for a proper kiss.

It’s possessive, and he’s not going to apologise for that, but Jamie doesn’t seem to mind. He gives as good as he gets, and soon they’re entangled in a different kind of wrestling match. Jamie worms his fingers under Malcolm’s vest, shoves it up almost far enough to choke him before he pulls back mid-kiss.

“Fuck—will you take that fucking thing off now?”

He doesn’t think about it, just pulls it off and tosses it aside. There’s a lot of bare skin now, and Malcolm pushes in close, maximises contact. It makes his body tingle down to the tips of his very fingers, and when it doesn’t stop but gets stronger, he’s the one to break the kiss, tucks his mouth against the side of Jamie’s neck.

“I’ve missed you,” he breathes, words almost stalling in his too-dry throat. “I’ve fucking _missed_ you, _Jesus_.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” Jamie’s voice is muffled against Malcolm’s shoulder. “Thought about coming to visit, but it’s—”

“Shh,” and Malcolm shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk about that; all the ways they could’ve done this differently. “Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t fucking—it’s done now. Just don’t—”

He can’t say it. It _hurts_ , a painful lump in his chest that makes it hard to breathe.

Jamie squeezes the back of his neck. “Don’t what, Malc?”

“Don’t ever fucking _leave_ again. Don’t you _ever_ —fucking—” and that’s how far he gets, but Jamie gets it, presses a kiss to the side of his head.

“Don’t fucking tell me to. I won’t if you don’t fucking tell me to.”

\------

They don’t actually end up having sex. Everything’s too fucking raw, so they just neck some more and let things settle. Jamie starts flagging halfway through, positing the excuse of a sleepless night spent in the discomfort of a US Airways cabin. Malcolm cards his fingers through thick curls and watches Jamie drift off—and then, because nobody’s watching, he just lies there for a while and basks in his presence.

He doesn’t know why he said half the things he said to Jamie back in ‘09. He has no clue why he decided to slam that door quite so hard. Lucky for him, Jamie’s not above breaking and entering to gain access. Perhaps he’ll leave the back door open from now on, just to avoid the bill for replacing the glass.

His life’s a fucking Leonard Cohen song, if Leonard Cohen had ever used metaphors involving terrace doors. Jesus fucking Christ.

He feels like waffles, so he gets up and makes some. The smell wafts up the stairs and rouses Jamie, who eats the rough equivalent of a hotel kitchen’s daily contingent. Malcolm finishes what’s left, and remembers that food can be more than the absorption of nutrients.

Jamie wants to see the house. What for, Malcolm asks, just to point out yet another five times that it’s got the charm of fucking Dracula’s tomb? He _said_ he didn’t hate it, Jamie replies, he’d just grown attached to the flat. But he’s willing to be convinced.

Fi’s room is what tips the scales. Jamie’s _delighted_ , inspects Fi’s stuff with obvious interest, until Malcolm can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if Jamie _had_ gotten married, _had_ started a family. He’d’ve loved any potential kids as fucking unconditionally as he loves everything else he deems important. That thought makes Malcolm feel like shit, and he crosses his arms, stands frowning in the doorway as Jamie putters about the room.

“Jeez, Malc.” Jamie catches his expression and puts down the book he was looking at. “What _now_?”

He chews on the inside of his lip. This is really fucking big. But then, they crossed the Rubicon a _while_ back. “If we’re not fucking married, Jamie, then what the fuck are we?”

Jamie’s lips part in that startled fucking expression that makes him look like he left his brain in his other head. “Fuck me.” He pulls his shoulders up to his ears. “ _I_ don’t fucking know, Malc. I don’t know what this is. To you. I sort of know what it is to me.”

Malcolm waits. “Well, don’t fucking leave me hanging.”

“Aw, shite.” Jamie wipes his palms on his trousers. “It’s—like— _fuck_. Right.” He clears his throat. “It’s first priority, innit?”

A thin layer of ice settles on Malcolm’s skin. He clenches his jaw, forms his words with care. “First priority of what?”

“Of—Christ, Malc. Of _everything_.”

He says it like it should be obvious. Malcolm holds very still, ignores his heart that’s trying to make its way out of his chest via his throat. “That’s not—” He swallows, hard. _Angry_. “That is not fucking _true_. That’s a fucking _lie_.” Jamie’s hurt, he can tell, but _fuck_ Jamie. He takes a step towards him. “If this were first priority to you, you’d’ve never fucking _left_!”

“ _YOU FUCKING TOLD ME TO!_ ” It’s loud, angry, and a bit anguished. “ _You_ fucking told me to, _you_ said I should go ‘cos I’d never get a chance like that again. All I did was what _you fucking told me_!”

“Well, don’t fucking _listen_!” He throws up his hands. “Jesus, Jamie, I’ve no fucking clue! All right? I’ve got _no fucking clue_ what I’m doing, I’m about to get fucking tried and convicted for it! I am not an authority on fucking _anything_ , least of all on whether you should go to America, or come back to London, or be a priest or a husband or a fucking political journalist! It’s _your_ fucking life! I’m barely managing my own.”

Fuck. Jamie’s eyes are too bright. Why the _fuck_ does this always happen; why do they _always_ fight?

“What’re you saying?”

He takes a deep breath. “I’m saying that you can’t expect me to make these choices for you. It’s _not_ fucking fair.”

Jamie stands there, fists curling and uncurling. It’s like they’ve fucking time travelled; he looks like the day he showed up in Malcolm’s flat in Glasgow.

Or perhaps not. Piece by piece, Jamie reassembles his armour, takes a few steps closer, and goes over to attack. “I didn’t want to go to America. I did it ‘cos you told me to, I’ll give you that. But don’t think for _one second_ that I’m back here ‘cos it’s what _you_ want.” Jamie gets right up in his face. “I didn’t know what you wanted, did I. Not until earlier; you never fucking said. You don’t get to fucking take credit for this. I’m here because I want to be, because I’ve _decided_ to be, so _fuck_ you.”

“All right.” He moves back a bit, clears his throat. His breath is kind of short. “So—why? It’s— _fuck_. I’m not trying to be an arsehole. I just—what’s in it for you?”

Jamie searches his face, and now he looks concerned again. Malcolm wishes he'd _stop_ with that fucking look. “ _You_ are, ye dimwit.”

“Right.” Malcolm smiles. It hurts a little around the edges. “Not much of a fucking prize.”

“Don’t fucking say shit like that.” Jamie steps back. “You say you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing, Malc, but you do. I mean, look at yourself.”

“What, mid-fifties and about to go to prison?”

Jamie does a vigorous eyeroll. “ _No_. Mid-fifties and at the top of your country’s government. You’ve been running this shop for years, Malc. Do you know how many Oxbridge twats don’t make it half as far as you with twice the resources? Fucking Harvard numpties whose dads pay their fucking car insurance so they can fuck around in the White House and do a bang-up job of making everyone else’s lives fucking hell. You got yourself from the Gorbals to here, and you did it on your own. You fucking _know_ what you’re _doing_.”

Put like that, it almost makes sense. Probably because Jamie’s the one saying it. “You don't even know for sure that I’m from the Gorbals.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Of course I fucking am.”

“Then what the fuck are you arguing for?” Jamie growls, exasperated. “A couple of bad years don’t negate everything else you’ve done. And neither does going to prison. _I’ve_ been to prison, remember?”

“Is that supposed to cheer me up?” Malcolm does remember. “You showed up here looking like a fucking death camp victim.”

“Aye, but it’s not going to be like that for you.” Jamie spreads his hands. “I was just some snot-nosed shite from Motherwell, and it was the eighties. Nobody’d ever even heard of Health & Safety in the eighties. It’s all fucking _regulations_ and _max-capacity_ these days. And _you_ , you’re a fucking VIP. You’ll be going to the HMP fucking _Radisson Blu_. You’ll probably have room service.”

“So, what, it’ll be like a fucking holiday?”

“Exactly.” Jamie crowds in, puts his hands on Malcolm’s waist, and he’s fucking _smirking_. “A nice fucking holiday, individually designed and paid for by the state.”

Malcolm can’t help it, he smirks a little, too. “I hate fucking holidays.”

“That’s ‘cos they missed the fun genes when they assembled you. They were like, oh look, we’ve got these bits left over, guess he’s going to be like a fucking IKEA dresser that’s missing the drawer bottoms.”

“When _they_ assembled me?” Malcolm snorts. “Are you into fucking polytheism now?”

“Aw, fuck off.” Jamie’s got him backed against the doorframe, and he’s grinning like a fucking leprechaun. “Are we just about done re-enacting last week’s _Oprah_? ‘cos I can’t wait to get to the part where I fuck your brains out so you’ll stop fucking overheating them.”

That’s fucking distracting, so his retort lacks fervour. “You think that’ll happen?”

“I think it will, yeah.”

Jamie eyes are full of intent, and Malcolm’s throat dries up. “Fuck.” He swallows, shudders a little. “I fucking hate you, you know that?”

“Yeah, right.” Jamie runs a finger along Malcolm’s jaw. “So convincing, Malc, no wonder they’re getting you for perjury.”

“ _Fuck_!” It’s like a bucket of cold water, and he shoves a palm against Jamie’s chest. “That is _not_ fucking funny!”

“Hey!” Jamie stumbles back, but it’s like he’s got rubber bands for arms, snaps back within a second. “I’m sorry. I’m fucking—I’m sorry, Malc, never mind that, all right? Just—”

“It’s fine.” He exhales, returns the embrace and _focuses_. Tension bleeds out of his body, and Jamie’s hands slide over his back.

“That’s it.” He can feel Jamie nuzzle at his ear. “Just relax.”

“Shut up, you sound like a fucking meditation tape. Just—” and he nudges him in direction of the bedroom. Jamie gets the hint.

He doesn’t keep any of his clothes on this time; he wants _nothing_ between them. Once in bed, Jamie wraps around him, and he rolls on top of him to suck on his collarbone, slips a hand between his legs.

“I’ve got so many fucking things I want to do to you.” So many things he thought about these past few years, always in the secrecy of his own head, in the isolation of his dark bedroom. “I’ve got a fucking to-do list that’d make Rita Hayworth blush.”

Jamie’s eyes are half-closed, lips parted. He already looks fucking blissed out, and all Malcolm’s doing is fondle his prick, slow strokes just to warm things up. Malcolm wants to use his mouth, but he doesn’t want to move down there and miss an expression on Jamie’s face.

“Don’t think about anybody else.” He presses in closer and palms Jamie’s hair out of his face. “I don’t fucking care how many you went through in America, right now you’re _here_ , with _me_.”

“I’m fucking _trying_ to be.” Jamie shifts underneath. “If I can’t bring up your charges, you can’t bring up that.”

Malcolm’s about to reply—if Jamie doesn’t want him to bring it up, maybe he shouldn’t have _gone and cheated_ —when Jamie’s legs wrap around his, hands grab his shoulders, and he’s wrestled onto his back. Malcolm arches up in protest, but Jamie grabs his wrists and pins them, a heavy weight holding him down. Without warning, he catches his mouth in a sloppy, aggressive kiss.

“You don’t—fucking—get it, do you?” He gasps it in between, bites the side of his neck when Malcolm tries to turn his head away. “ _Look at me_!”

Malcolm does. Jamie’s staring at him, wide-eyed, fucking _serious_. “I meant what I said, Malc. It’s first fucking priority. I don’t care if they send you up the river for a fucking decade, or if you decide to make your living fucking busking in Leicester Square station after. This is _it_. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

He can feel the sheets underneath, expensive fucking John Lewis stock covering his fucking expensive ergonomic mattress, in his fucking expensive London house and his fucking expensive, messed-up fucking workaholic life. Can feel his wrists grind into the thread count, can feel Jamie lying on top of him like a weighted blanket. He’s trapped, and he _hates_ being trapped, except right now he doesn’t. He’s exactly where he wants to be; right here, with Jamie. He always wants to be right here with Jamie.

He nods, clears his throat. “I get it. I—” He stalls, and Jamie just watches him. Words are fucking _hard_. “Yeah, all right. I get it.”

Jamie lets out a huff, and warm lips press against Malcolm’s. “Good.”

For a while, Jamie continues to pin him down. It’s like he’s taking stock, making sure it’s all still there. After some initial squirming, Malcolm lets him get on with it, focuses on Jamie’s touch, his exploring mouth, his cock which is trapped between them. Before long, he’s sensitised to the slightest of grazes, breathing hard and cursing as Jamie sucks a toothy kiss into the hollow of his throat. “Fuck, Jamie. _Jamie_.”

Something in his voice makes Jamie looks up. His grip on his wrists wanes, and Malcolm makes use of the opportunity, hooks a leg behind Jamie’s knees and flips them. He’s back on top, holding Jamie down with a palm in the centre of his chest. “Don’t fucking move.” He puts a finger against Jamie’s lips, glares for emphasis.

Jamie gets the idea, eyes wide and pupils blown, so Malcolm makes his way down to his crotch. Jamie’s cock is as he remembers, slightly less than average in length but _thick_ , the proverbial blunt instrument. His pubes are not just groomed, they’re fucking manscaped, neatly trimmed edges leaving just a bit of fuzz in the middle. That’s new, and Malcolm snorts.

“Did you get this done at a fucking salon?”

“Don’t knock it without trying it. DC gets fucking hot in the summer.”

“Jesus.” There’s an upside; as he puts his mouth to work, for once he doesn’t end up with a mouth full of bristles. Jamie swears when he sucks him in, arches up and slams his palms against the headrest.

“Fuck, Malc. _Shit_. I’ve fucking missed this.”

He smiles around a mouthful of cock, uses his tongue to tease the tip and elicit more swearing. He’s going slow, takes his time, one hand fondling Jamie’s balls and the other on his stomach making sure he stays in place.

He goes deeper, pulls back less far each time. It’s steady progress, easier as Jamie’s cock gets slicker with saliva and pre-come. At the first, salty taste, Malcolm shudders, has to stop and keep still for a moment, Jamie in his mouth making it hard to breathe. It’s great, it’s fucking _heady_. It’s sort of like being high, if Malcolm remembers correctly the misguided years of his youth. He swallows around Jamie’s cock, and works out how to get enough air through his nose to keep this position for a while.

Jamie’s swearing a blue fucking streak, incoherent curses followed by nonverbal moans. Malcolm can feel Jamie’s legs tremble, his fingers digging into Malcolm’s hair. It’s _great_. He’s got him pinned like a bug, and from what he can tell, it feels as good to Jamie as it does to him. His fingers on Jamie’s balls venture further back, across soft skin to the nub of Jamie’s arsehole, and Jamie _shouts_.

“ _Fuck_!” The fingers in his hair curl, yank up. “Fuck, Malc, fuck—get back—”

He’s not about to let this show end prematurely, so he complies, gasps for air as Jamie slips out from between his lips. He’s manhandled upwards, his breath being cut off once more as Jamie pushes his mouth against his. He’s so overeager and uncoordinated that it makes Malcolm laugh. “Calm the fuck down. It’s all right, I’m not going anywhere.”

“ _Shit_ , Malc.” Jamie’s panting as if he were the one who just held his breath for a minute. “You fucking bastard, where’d you learn to _do_ that?”

“Deep throating’s how I make my fucking living, Jamie.”

He takes a few moments to get it, but then he’s cackling like a maniac, tears running down the side of his face. “Use _that_ as your fucking defence,” he gasps, holds his stomach. “Your fucking lawyer standing there, ‘deep throating’s how he makes his fucking living, Yer Honour, can’t convict a man for pursuing his fucking _livelihood_.’”

“What’d I _say_ about bringing this up?” Though he doesn’t even mind. He’s been charged, but it’s not all said and done by a long shot. This is probably what fucking optimism feels like—like a lobotomy, but a very gentle one. “And what’d I say about staying still; stop fucking _squirming_.”

Jamie squirms more on purpose, and they wrestle, until Jamie resorts to fucking dirty moves (fucking _tickling_ ) and Malcolm scrambles away, rolls off of him onto his back. He reaches for the nightstand drawer, fishes out the Durex and presses it in Jamie’s hand. “Get ta work, ye wee shite.”

He does, and now it’s Malcolm’s turn to push his palms against the headrest, arch his spine as sensation dances along his nerves. He’s out of practice; it takes a bit to find that place in his mind that allows him to _relax_ , to let Jamie in. It’s always been easier with Jamie than with anyone else, though, and before long, he’s feeling _really fucking relaxed_ , Jamie’s fingers finding the sweet spot with the routine of many years of practice. He smiles, eyes half-closed, and pushes down to meet Jamie half-way. “So fucking good,” and if it’s a bit slurred, he doesn’t even care. “Feels so fucking _good_.”

Jamie rubs his stomach, trails his fingers down Malcolm’s prick and makes him shudder. “Fuck, Malcolm.” He’s quiet, fucking reverent. Really fucking unlike Jamie.

Malcolm grabs his hand, pulls it up to his mouth to press a kiss to his knuckles. “Get to it, yeah?”

While Jamie suits up, Malcolm gets to his knees, then pulls Jamie over and around to make him sit against the headrest. Confused at first, Jamie catches on when Malcolm climbs into his lap, raised up on his knees to line up. Jamie puts his hands on his waist, mutters small encouraging sounds as he tilts his hips to provide a better angle.

Malcolm minds his breathing as he takes him in; slow and steady; feel every fucking second of it. The heady feeling from earlier returns, makes him glad for Jamie holding him, providing a point of reference. His head’s swimming by the time Jamie’s in all the way, and he more falls than leans forward, wraps his arms around Jamie and finds his mouth with his own.

That’s how they do it, slowly rocking back and forth, never breaking the kiss. At one point, salty liquid mixes with the sweat on Jamie’s cheeks, but Malcolm just kisses it away and cups the back of Jamie’s head, holds him as they mutually approach completion.

Jamie comes with a gasp and a shudder, right after Malcolm, who’s floating on endorphins and never _ever_ wants to pull away. He does anyway, of course, because Jamie gets sensitive and starts fucking squirming again. He falls to the side onto the mattress, goose bumps prickling on his skin for the two seconds it takes Jamie to lie down as well and wrap around him.

It’s nice to know that some things never change.

He pulls the blanket over them, nuzzles the hair on the top of Jamie’s head. “You good?” Jamie just nods. It’s like he’s lost his words; not something Malcolm ever expected to witness. “You sure?”

He nods again, presses closer. There’s a couple of aborted breaths as Jamie’s words stall in his throat; then, quiet: “I fucking love you, Malc.”

Those words will always raise a flag, he can’t fucking help it. But it’s like a computer alert—the machine’s freaking out, but you know all you’ve got to do is click “OK” and go ahead anyway with whatever you were doing. He waits a few moments, and sure enough, the sudden tension between his shoulder blades dissipates. “Good.” He’s sort of quiet himself. “All right. Me, too.”

Jamie _has_ to know he’s not going to get more than that—and apparently, he does. He relaxes, grins, presses a kiss against Malcolm’s chest. “Going to get that tattooed on my arse. Show it to you whenever you act a prick.”

“I’ll fucking kill you.”

“You mean you’ll fucking try.”

“I’ll get the _Sun_ to longlense you, splash your cheeks across the front page.”

“Would be the first article worth reading they’ve ever run.”

Malcolm snorts. “That’s the fucking truth.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Thanks so much to all of you who have followed along and stuck with it; your investment means the world. I hope you enjoy the wrap-up, and get the ending you were hoping for.
> 
> If you'd like to share your thoughts when you're done, I would love to hear from you. If you'd like to follow me for future fic (there's one in the works right now; it should be going up in the next couple of weeks), you can [go to my profile](http://archiveofourown.org/users/teyla) and hit the "Subscribe" button at the top of the page.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Molly the Mormon loses the American election, and Malcolm and Jamie cheer for Jamie’s Illinois-Senator-turned-President from the comfort of Malcolm’s sofa.

Then the court summons the plea hearing, and Malcolm stops having a good time.

He can smell Goolding’s handwriting all over the court’s uncharacteristic promptness. He’s essentially already convicted, he tells Jamie; they can’t get him for Tickell, so they’re going to get him for this, but get him they must, lest they find themselves pressed to justify an expensive inquiry that showed no results whatsoever.

Jamie wants to know why they picked _him_ of all people to pin this on. Weren’t there other, leakier candidates? When he explains about showing them the _Mirror_ photo, Jamie just stares.

“Are you out of your fucking _mind_?” He’s not so much angry as incredulous. “What on _Earth_ made you think that admitting to leaking was a good fucking idea?”

“I didn’t go up there and tell them to fucking cuff me!” The annoying thing is, he knows Jamie’s right. “I suppose I expected the inquiry to be genuine on _some_ fucking level.”

“Jesus, Malc.” Jamie shakes his head. “It’s like one of those Japanese films where the hero sticks a fucking sword in his gut at the end. If you wanted out, you could’ve just _left_.”

“You—” _Fuck_. “You think I did this on purpose?”

“I don’t fucking know! _You_ tell _me_. It was a fucking _stupid_ thing to do.”

Malcolm sneers, but he knows he owes an honest answer to this. He paces a few steps, tries to dig down to the truth. “I did want out.” He’s never admitted it straight-up like that; it feels _good_. “But I didn’t—I don’t _think_ I did it on purpose.”

“You sound really fucking sure about that.” Jamie shoos him over to the sofa. “Sit the fuck down. Tell me exactly what happened.”

It doesn’t take that long. The moment he mentions the photo, Jamie wants to see it. He fetches the copy he got from his lawyer, and Jamie sits there, staring at it placed next to the newspaper Xerox Malcolm submitted in evidence.

“How’d they get this?”

“I don’t fucking know.” He’s made coffee, and he sits there cradling his cup. “They must’ve requested it from the _Mirror_.”

“Yeah, but _why_?” Jamie points at the Xerox. “How’d they look at what you showed them and go, oh hey, let’s look at the fucking _original_ , and let’s enhance it just for kicks; oh shit, he’s got Tickell’s NHS number!”

Malcolm purses his lips and shrugs. It's a great fucking question that for some reason nobody's asked, and it’s raising a glimmer of hope in the back of his mind. Like hell is he going to acknowledge it at this point.

“Look at this.” Jamie grabs the picture, holds it up. “It’s too fucking bright to make anything out. You can’t even _see_ the numbers, not unless you know they’re there.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because you’re fucking ancient. Not everyone’s a blind old bat.”

“Excuse you, I’ve got fucking 20/20. Got it tested just this summer.”

“Really?” Malcolm takes the photo from him. “Your eyes haven’t gone bad at all?”

“Nope.” Jamie sounds like it’s an accomplishment that’s entirely down to _him_ , not genetics. “My optometrist was really fucking mad, he’d’ve loved to sell me some fucking expensive designer specs.”

Malcolm fishes his own glasses out from underneath the couch table. “Lucky for him, there’s the fucking rest of us.”

This is followed by some obligatory mocking, and Jamie stealing his glasses to put them on himself (thank God he doesn’t need any; the lenses make his eyes shrink and he looks fucking bizarre), but then Malcolm inspects the photo himself.

Jamie's right, the paper he’s holding looks blank to the naked (bespectacled) eye. The shadow that he knows to be his handwriting might as well be just that, a shadow. Of course, Sureka & Co. could have got the enhancement done hoping for the best, but knowing what graphic artists charge for this sort of thing, he thinks it unlikely.

“Someone's fucking tipped them off about this. I'm going to _kill_ that prick.”

“Who at the _Mirror_ ’s still mad enough at you to do this?”

“ _Nobody_.” Malcolm shakes his head. “The _Mirror_ fucking likes me, they're the one paper that does.”

Jamie digs out his phone. “They're all in the fucking cloud now, though, right? iFuck-Getty-Drive or summat. Hang on—”

A moment later, he's on the phone to his _Mirror_ contact. He asks a couple of questions, listen, then hangs up with a predatory smile. “The job was fucking _exclusive_.”

“I could've told you as much. You think I'd give this to just about any paper?”

“Aye, but that means that the _picture rights_ are exclusive, too. Aydi says they haven't released it for anyone yet, and now with the inquiry, they're not fucking going to.”

“It’s a _legal panel_ , Jamie.” This sounds like a fucking dead-end. “They don’t care about fucking copyright, it’s not like they’re printing it.”

“No, but they have to _request_ it. And they didn’t, not until _after_ they’d already shown it at the inquiry.”

 _Oh_. Malcolm sits up. “Did you get the name of the photographer?”

“Aye, but I don’t know her.”

“I probably do; what was it?”

He does know her, and when he calls her, his glimmer of hope intensifies into a flame.

\------

It’s like pulling a loose thread; it always fucking is. None of it is proper fucking solid; but what they’ve got on Malcolm is just as thin. They want to throw the book at him, he’s going to throw back the fucking Library of Alexandria.

His lawyer starts lining up witnesses, which is Jamie’s moment to shine: with his background in the American Democratic campaign and lack of recent involvement in UK politics (and therefore the inquiry), he’s a stellar character witness to testify to Malcolm’s professional integrity.

For the personal side, they get in Annie. It’s only when she shows up at the house to discuss her appearance on the stand that Malcolm remembers that he hasn’t told her about Jamie being back. That’s pretty fucking ironic, she says; she’s here as the person who supposedly _knows you best_.

He enters his plea (not guilty), and the trial is scheduled for the week before Christmas. In the two weeks leading up, Malcolm barely sleeps. On the morning of the trial, he puts on his black suit and red tie, then swaps it out for a grey one with a muted tie. _Sympathy_ , he’s trying for sympathy; he doesn’t want to seem intimidating. Not that there’s much of a chance of success on that front; he just has that kind of face.

It’s not a complex case. That’s what his lawyer keeps saying; it’s not a complex case, so the hearings shouldn’t drag on for too long. The prosecution still takes forever to lay it all out. The prosecutor, a fat old fuck with a yellow tint to his eyes that Malcolm can see from all the way across the court room, spends more time talking about Tickell, NHS numbers, and data smuggling, than he does talking about the PFI email.

The press, crowded in the press box next to the witness stand, are lapping it up. They were outside earlier, countless cameras and microphones, and Malcolm hadn’t thought of that when he agreed to share a cab with Jamie to the court house. There are pictures now of them arriving together, and he prays to God that those fucking hyenas won’t use them to undermine Jamie as a witness. He doesn’t hold out much hope, though. It’s what he would do.

The prosecution calls Terri Coverly, and as Malcolm watches her stumble through the questions, he can’t even be fucking mad. He’s beginning to think that she’s the only one of his former Whitehall colleagues who operated under no delusions whatsoever, himself included. At least she always knew what was in it for her.

Nicola goes up on the stand, and that’s painful to watch. She should be foaming at the mouth for the way Malcolm put her out of commission; he knows that in her place, he’d know no mercy. But Nicola chooses her words with care, and doesn’t say a single bad fucking thing about him that isn’t true.

He stops listening halfway through, stares at his fingers and wonders if this is how Ebenezer Scrooge felt. The Ghost of fucking Election Past. Jesus.

The court breaks for lunch, and Malcolm’s not sure how much he missed. He feels like he’s out of synch with the fucking Matrix; stands in the big entrance hall and isn’t sure where he’s supposed to go.

“What a fucking ludicrous farce,” says Jamie, appearing out of nowhere. “They couldn’t even find any good witnesses. You’re either more popular than I thought, or way fucking scarier.” When he gets no reply, Jamie narrows his eyes. “Earth to Tucker. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Sure.” His palms feel clammy, so he wipes them on his jacket. “Sort of hungry.”

“Okay. Let’s find you something to eat, then.”

There’s a café right adjacent, and Jamie tells him to sit down as he gets them something from the counter. The food helps; before long, Malcolm stops feeling like a satellite in orbit around reality.

“Jeez, Malc.” Jamie eyes him as he chomps down on his sandwich. “Maybe don’t skip breakfast tomorrow, hey?”

Malcolm ignores that; breakfast, in his opinion, is on roughly the same level as waterboarding. He takes the other sandwich, rips it open. “So you think I’ve got a chance?”

“Fuck, yeah, if they keep going like this. Why aren’t they calling people who actually hate you? Steve Fleming would perjure himself at a trial about perjury to get you behind bars.”

“Everyone who actually hates me knows I’ve got a fucking compendium of compromising material on them.” He pulls his sandwich apart to pick off the soggy lettuce. “They’ll do everything to avoid testifying against me.”

“It’s like you’re the fucking Godfather.” Jamie grins. “They should make a film about you.”

“I think they are.” He eyes two journalists one table over writing notes while gobbling down their lunches, cameras on the table. “How is this even this fucking big a story?”

“Of course it's huge. The inquiry got a ton of coverage.”

“ _Months_ ago. Since when does the press have a long term memory?”

“It's political, not vanity.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes. “Same fucking difference.”

\------

The trial is as boring as it is nerve-wracking. The second hearing belongs to the defence, Jamie up on the stand telling everyone who's still listening that he's never known anyone with more professional integrity than Malcolm. He sounds like he actually fucking means it.

Annie does her part, too, and by the way his ex-colleagues stare at her from the witness box, you’d think they’re all demented. Malcolm still doesn’t get why it’s such a big deal that she’s his fucking twin.

The judge wraps it up just before the closing statements, and sends them home on a cliffhanger.

London’s got its Christmas lights up, sparkling golden garlands all the way up Regent Street. Jamie notices him staring at them through the cab window, and goes on an ode-slash-rant about Christmas decoration in London versus DC. Apparently, Americans don’t know how to do it properly. Their lights are too bright, or something. Malcolm isn’t really listening; the gist seems to be that Jamie prefers the London lights.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to remember that Christmas lights being up means it’ll be Christmas soon. Really fucking soon, in fact; his hearing was the last one for the year. He hasn’t had to deal with Christmas for years; Sam always did all the cards and the presents and the reminders to call people. He really fucking misses Sam sometimes. He should probably be writing _her_ a card, at the very least. Fuck.

He raps his knuckles on the dividing screen, gets the cabbie’s attention. “Change of plan,” he says. “Drop us off at Selfridges.”

“Are you mad?” Jamie sits up. “We are not going to fucking Oxford Street on the last day of Christmas shopping season!”

“Yes, we are. It’s the last fucking day, right? I haven’t got a single present.”

“Who the fuck are you giving presents to?”

Thing is, he doesn’t know. He used to leave it all to Sam. “Fi,” he says eventually. “I need something for Fi, at least.”

“Great, shopping for a teenager. That’s fucking easy. Oh _wait_.”

Jamie continues to complain all the way to the shop, goes through every fucking online platform Malcolm could’ve used to get his Christmas shopping done, until Malcolm snaps at him to shut up or he’ll put _Jamie_ on fucking eBay—in _parts_ , to get more ad revenue.

He has a point, though. Selfridges is a fucking battlefield; it’s Falkirk as the arrows begin to fall. Malcolm hasn’t been in here for _years_ , and it doesn’t help that he has no clue what a 12-year-old would like. How could he; they’re not even from the same fucking century.

He employs Jamie’s help, and having been given a task, Jamie stops moaning and gets to work. They go through the toy section (“too childish, she’s twelve”), through the handbag section (“too mature, she’s _fucking twelve_ ”), through the hat section (“what the fuck are we even doing here, Jamie, stop putting _things_ on my head!”), and finally end up among the cameras.

Jamie’s sceptical, but he hasn’t seen Fi in five years. She’s grown like a weed, Malcolm tells him, it’s like she’s a different person every time he meets her. Annie got her one of those fancy phones, and she’s graduated from painting colour blobs to taking videos and pictures. Nice pictures, too. A camera might be just the thing.

There’s a pile of something called a _GoPro_ in the centre of the department, and judging by the crowd, it’s popular. Malcolm’s beginning to sympathise with agoraphobics, so without further deliberation, he grabs one and elbows his way to the till. He even remembers to pick up a handful of cards on the way. There’s not a chance they’ll arrive on time, but a late card is better than no card, right?

\------

Christmas passes without much fanfare. Malcolm’s never seen the point in celebrating on his own, and Jamie, as it turns out, turns into a bristly, grouchy mess on the day. It takes some needling, but eventually he admits that he fucking hates Christmas, and all the other big Christian holidays. Apparently, they make him think about things he doesn’t want to think about. Stuck-up Catholic wankers spoiling Jamie’s Christmas doesn’t sit right with Malcolm, so he makes an effort to distract—first in the bedroom, then in the kitchen, which is how they do end up having a nice dinner, even if it doesn’t involve turkey.

On Boxing Day, Annie and Fi come to visit. The _GoPro_ was the right choice; Fi’s in love, and spends the afternoon doing video interviews with everyone present. That night in the comforting anonymity of their dark bedroom, Malcolm tells Jamie that he’d be perfectly happy if the court just forgot about him. He doesn’t need the ‘not guilty’ verdict; he’s not interested in validation or redemption. He just wants to be left alone.

It’s like the universe heard him, and decided to deliver a great big “fuck you” right to his doorstep.

It’s not the court summons for the final hearing, though that piece of mail also weighs heavily in his stomach. It’s the _Mirror_ , sitting harmless and innocuous among the bills, flyers, and take-out menus. The front page is something or other about the NHS cuts (every other headline these days is about the NHS cuts, as they fucking should be), but on page four, there’s a picture of him.

No, not just him. It’s so much worse. It’s a picture of _him and Jamie_.

 _ **The Man Behind Malcolm Tucker**_ , and that’s fucking _hilarious_ , it’s funny as hell, because in the picture, Jamie _is_ behind him, waving around a Selfridges hat while Malcolm’s trying to dodge.

It’s the worst picture of himself he’s ever seen printed. He looks like a fucking _idiot_.

He takes the paper into the kitchen, reads and rereads, until Jamie joins him from upstairs. He wants to read, too, but Malcolm snatches the paper out of his reach; he’s not done with it.

The words are _worse_ than the picture. He didn’t think that’d be fucking possible.

“How the _fuck_ did they get any of this?”

“I don’t fucking know. I don’t even know what it says.” Jamie reaches for the paper again. “Is it—”

“Is it _what_?”

“About—you know. _Us_. Is it about you and me?”

“It’s got a fucking _picture_ of you and me!”

“You know what I mean!”

He does, and he knows the answer, too, but he doesn’t want to give it, so he shoves the paper at Jamie. “Fucking read it yourself.”

Jamie glares; then does, eyebrows pulling together as he goes along. Malcolm knows it by heart at this point. It starts out recapping Jamie’s testimony, and then goes into way too many details about the various intersections of his and Jamie’s lives. In the end, it makes a fucking effort to point out that they’re both lifelong bachelors, that Jamie used to work for the most LGBT-friendly administration in US history, and that Malcolm habitually adopted a pro-gay rights stance when the question came up.

It does everything but claim that they’re secret gay lovers. But that’s only because the _Mirror_ likes him. The moment the _Sun_ picks this up, it’s fucking open season.

“That’s not too bad.” Jamie, with uncanny skill, draws the wrong fucking conclusion. “They don’t say anything of fucking substance.”

“They know you fucking live here!” He snatches the paper back, points to the paragraph in question. “They say you fucking left DC because of a “family emergency”. Why’d you go and say _that_ , hey? And how do they fucking know about it?”

“They probably spoke to the fucking campaign manager! Jesus, Malc, what was I supposed to say? I left five days before the election; I needed a good fucking reason!”

“Yeah, well, we’re _not_ —” — _family_ , he wants to finish. But they’ve been over this. They’re not fucking family only in the sense that there’s no good word for what it is they fucking are.

He chucks the paper on the counter, drops onto the sofa and puts his head in his hands. “ _Jesus_.”

The upholstery dips as Jamie sits down next to him. Malcolm peers through his fingers, but doesn’t lower them.

“Look, Malc, I know you want to keep this quiet.” Jamie’s looking at the article, even fucking smiles a bit. “But you’ve worked for these people. The _Mirror_ , I mean. _We_ have. A really long fucking time ago, but I bet you that Albert’s still there, and _he_ fucking remembers you. They’re not being mean about it; it’s a fucking sympathy article. ‘We finally figured out why he’s never married, it’s because he’s fucking gay, well, why’d he never say so?’”

That does make him drop his hands, stare at Jamie in incredulity. “Why’d I never fucking say so? You’re fucking joking, right?”

“Fuck—of _course_ I fucking know why you never said! _Jesus_ , Malc. It’s great fucking cultural amnesia, the way folks are forgetting what it was like only a few years ago. But the point is, it’s not _like_ that anymore. Not always, anyway. Things are changing. This may be a _good_ thing.”

“A good—” He crosses his arms. “Okay, I’m looking forward to you explaining _that_ one.”

“It’s _personal interest_. It’s what you’re going for in your defence; the man behind Malcolm Tucker, that’s not me. That’s _you_.”

“Have you had a stroke? What the fuck are you on about?”

Jamie rolls his eyes. “For Pete’s sake, Malc, sometimes you’re dumb as a rock.”

It takes another couple of moments, but then he huffs a laugh. “Oh. Oh, _fuck_ no. My defence is not _letting people get to know me_. People don’t _want_ to fucking know me. If I’d let people get to know me, I’d’ve ended up behind bars years ago.”

“One, that’s complete bullshit, and two—do you even realise what folks see in this fucking trial?”

“I’m sure you’re about to fucking school me.”

“Aye, I fucking am. Folks see the system eating their own. Good fucking riddance, right? They don’t give a fuck. They’ll _only_ give a fuck if they think of you as something _more_ than the system.”

“Like what, fucking Pudsey Bear?”

“Like a fucking _person_ , Malc.”

That hurts. It shouldn’t; he shouldn’t let this get to him, but that’s a nerve that he’s never managed to insulate. He snatches the newspaper from Jamie’s fingers, tosses it onto the kitchen counter as he makes his way out onto the terrace.

On the terrace, it’s fucking freezing. He’s in shirtsleeves, and belatedly regrets his choice of dramatic exit door. There’s no going back inside for at least ten minutes, so he sticks his hands into his pits and hunches his shoulders. Fucking London winters have been turning colder by the year; thanks a bunch, global warming.

Jamie’s predictability is a fucking virtue. It’s less than a minute before he joins Malcolm, hands him his coat and stands next to him in his own.

“All right.” He jerks his chin up, hands shoved into his pockets. “Fucking spill.”

Malcolm pulls his coat around himself tightly, squints at the hedge that lines a backyard he never fucking uses. “You got any fags?”

“You don’t smoke.”

“ _You_ do.”

“Have you seen me fucking smoke recently?”

“You _used_ to—Jesus, come off it. Just get them.”

“ _Fine_. Hang on.”

He ducks back inside, and returns a moment later with a squished pack of L&Ms. Malcolm takes one, borrows Jamie’s lighter and takes a deep drag. It goes to his head within seconds; he hasn’t smoked in years.

It also makes him cough, and Jamie snorts as he lights his own. “Still fucking bad at this, I see.”

“Shut up.”

It takes him half the cigarette to come up with what to say. Jamie patiently waits him out.

“I’m really fucking bad at _in-the-moment_.” He taps out the emphasis in the air in front of him. “’Enjoy the moment’, well, I fucking can’t, I’m thinking about the ten potential next ones.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“It makes it really fucking hard to share anything.” Admitting that makes him feel a little ill, and he takes another deep drag, holds in the smoke. “If all you’re thinking about is fucking hypotheticals, there’s nothing that’s ever _real_. If nothing’s real, there’s nothing that can ever be shared.”

“Jeez, Malc.” Jamie squints. “All right. Go on.”

He shrugs. “That’s it. There’s nothing to be shared, no real fucking person. Just hypotheticals.”

Silence follows, and he can’t look at Jamie. There’s eccentric, and there’s fucking crazy, and he thinks he may have just crossed from one into the other. Whatever promises Jamie’s made, he’s not going to feel bound by them after finding out that Malcolm’s a nutjob.

“That’s fucking bullshit, Malc.”

Or he’s just going to dismiss it all. Malcolm drops the cigarette butt, grinds it out under his heel. He supposes dismissal is better than panicked flight.

“Not to offend your fucking sensibilities or summat,” and that makes him shoot Jamie a glare, “but really, Malc, if you supposedly can’t share things, then what’s this right now?”

“A fucking mistake.”

Jamie rolls his eyes. “There are things that are fucking real to you. I know there are. Preferring cock over cunt, that’s one. Liking fucking citrus fruit, that’s two. You love your niece to pieces, and there’s got to be something real about me, too; otherwise you’d’ve had me strangled in a dark fucking alley back in Glasgow. The real stuff is there; you just don’t like folk knowing about it, so you throw up a smoke screen of fucking hypotheticals, and end up getting lost in it yourself.”

He wants another fucking cigarette; something to distract himself from the conflicting urges to hug Jamie, or put a hit out on him after all. He paces a couple of steps, aborts, shoves his hands into his pockets as he turns around. “You get a fucking degree in psychology while I wasn’t looking?”

“Nah.” Jamie grins. “I’ve just known you for a long fucking time.”

That’s more comforting than scary, which is terrifying in itself. He scratches the back of his head. “So what you’re saying is that folk knowing that I ‘prefer cock over cunt’ will make me seem more real, and less like a fucking cog the machine will run just fine without?”

“ _Now_ you’re getting it.” Jamie nods. “Person, not cog. Not _cock_ , either.”

He looks so fucking proud of himself. Malcolm pulls a face. “That doesn’t even make _sense_.”

“It’s a _joke_ , it’s not supposed to.” He crosses his arms, pulls up his shoulders. “Can we go back inside now? I’m freezing my fucking nuts off here.”

\------

Jamie’s cog theory holds up, and it’s probably the biggest surprise of Malcolm’s career. It’s certainly the most nerve-wracking; he hates being in the papers, and over the rest of the Christmas break, the tabloids blow the story up from a mid-paper blurb to a front pager—not at the top, but at the side, read more about this on page four.

They are, by and large, being nice about it. The _Sun_ takes it into nasty territory once by comparing him to Rudolf Hess, but the _Mirror_ delivers a smack-down response by comparing _them_ to the Nazis who used to mass-execute queer folk in the death camps.

Just another day in the British yellow press.

The _Guardian_ , usually the first to jump into the fray when it comes to defending the honour of homosexuals, stays mysteriously silent. They’re probably still mad about the last hearing, in which the defence offered strong circumstantial evidence that they obtained the _Mirror_ photo through illegal means (server logs showing a fault in the user rights management of the photographer’s cloud service, and significant data traffic between the cloud and the _Guardian_ office).

Discrediting the source of the prosecution’s key evidence—the PFI email—seems to have done wonders for changing the tone of the coverage. While the tabloids are discussing Malcolm’s sexual preferences, the more serious papers are starting to ask what half of the prosecution’s points have to do with anything. Isn’t the main question whether or not Mr Tucker perjured himself about leaking the PFI email? Why is anyone even talking about the _Mirror_ photo? Could this be a witch hunt staged to feign results to a frankly ineffective inquiry?

It might just fucking be; thank you for joining the rest of us, Malcolm thinks as he scrolls through his newsfeed.

The final hearing is scheduled two days before Fi’s thirteenth birthday. She calls him the night before, tells him she wants to attend (he says no, darling, sorry, they won’t let you in—which might even be true, who the fuck knows), and also tells him that being gay is totally cool and that she likes Jamie, even though his eyes are freakishly big.

He’s never been so grateful for having anyone on speaker; Jamie protests vocally, and Malcolm’s saved from having to think of a reply to the gay thing.

The later it gets, the more he feels like he’s ingested his body weight in caffeine. The paranoia sets in properly around bed time; everything’s been going _too fucking well_ , there’s something he’s overlooked, something he didn’t think of, and it’s all going to come crashing down tomorrow when they’ll convict him and send him up the river for the rest of his fucking lifetime—because he’s fucking _old_ , isn’t he, he doesn’t have that much lifetime _left_.

Jamie tells him to _fucking go to sleep_ , but when his alarm finally goes off in the morning, he’s not at all positive that he didn’t lie there all night staring at the ceiling and not sleeping a wink.

It’s all the fucking same at this point, so they share a cab to the court house. Journalists accost him, and they want to know about Jamie as much as they do about the trial. He waves them off, no comment, _no comment_ , until he’s in the dreary safety of the court room.

He hates this fucking place. It’s real-life Samuel Beckett; what he imagines being smothered by a pillow held down by an airport security clerk while suffering from sleep paralysis would be like. It’ll be over one way or another after today. The thought isn’t comforting.

The prosecution counsel summarises his case. The fat sweaty fuck at least mentions the PFI email, but it’s like he’s not been reading the papers. He keeps banging on about how someone who would handle confidential government email with such a cavalier attitude, and then lie about it under oath, would not shirk away from smuggling sensitive data and leaking medical records, which would make his statements at the inquiry a double count of perjury. He ends with beseeching the honoured members of the jury to deliberate fairly and reach a verdict of ‘guilty’, so that Mr Tickell’s family will be allowed some closure.

It sounds like utter horseshit to Malcolm, but the jurors sit there, wide-eyed and impressionable, and he remembers that it doesn’t fucking matter what he thinks. It’s not fucking fair that his fate should be laid into the hands of twelve random schmucks. He might as well be playing Russian Roulette with two fucking six-shooters and an unknown number of bullets.

His lawyer picks apart the prosecution’s case piece by piece. Tickell’s not why they’re here today, no matter how many times the prosecutions wants to bring up his tragic death. The defence’s condolences go out to Mr Tickell’s family, but it must be reiterated that Mr Tucker had nothing to do with the leaking of the man’s medical records. The prosecution’s so-called evidence—most likely illegally obtained, by the way—was deemed by the court as insufficient to even bring charges, let alone prosecution. Given these circumstances, the harsh pursuit of Mr Tucker for a case of alleged perjury, which the prosecution seems suspiciously uninterested to discuss, is thrown into a less-than-favourable light.

This is followed by some numbers about the Goolding inquiry expenses, harsh press reactions to previous inquiries that did nothing but cost money, and a question of what, when stripped of all their artificially enhanced accusations, the prosecution is left with.

“An email,” and it’s a bit of a Hollywood moment as the image comes up on the screen, “no more than a forwarded email with a blank subject line and no text of its own. An email any of us could have sent—by accident. Mr Tucker admits to sending this email _by accident_ , and expresses his regrets that it contributed slightly to the negative press Mrs Murray was subjected to at the time. Mr Tucker denies having leaked this email on purpose. He denied doing so at the inquiry, and he is denying doing so today. The defence asks the honoured members of the jury to _end_ this prosecution farce and reach the only fair verdict of ‘not guilty’.”

He stops listening after that. It’s just the judge explaining it again for the jurors. He leaves the court room to wait out the deliberation, but the lobby is filled with reporters, and then there’s Jamie, who for the first time is showing some nerves of his own.

“Stop fucking pacing,” he snaps eventually from the bench in a side corridor where they’ve hidden from the press. “You’re driving me nuts!”

Jamie stops, bounces on the balls of his feet. “How long can it fucking take? It’s fucking obvious what the verdict should be!”

“Yeah, well, you’re fucking biased. Sit the fuck down, or I’ll make you.”

He does sit down, but then he starts jiggling his legs and drumming his fingers, and so before long, Malcolm’s the one on his feet and patrolling the width of the corridor. How long _can_ it fucking take?

Turns out it’s about an hour. Everyone files back into the court room, takes their accustomed seats, stares at the jury. Malcolm’s memorised all their faces; from the pasty middle-aged blonde to the chubby old bloke with the unfortunate haircut. Decide which list you’re going to go on, he thinks, my Christmas or my shit list. Be advised that former occupants of the shit list have _not_ enjoyed the experience.

The jury foreman looks like Neil Patrick Harris after a brutal diet. His voice is nasal and grating, and Malcolm all but knows that a voice this irritating could never be a bearer of good news.

“Has the jury reached a verdict upon which at least ten of you agree?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Like nails on a chalkboard.

“What is your verdict? Please answer only ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty’.”

Malcolm’s not breathing. He’s pretty sure his heart’s stopped. He’s watching Neil Patrick Harris open his mouth in super slow-motion.

“Not guilty, my Lord.”

The words don’t process, not until there’s a whoop from the witness box. “Fuck _yeah_! Suck it, wankers!”

That’s Jamie. Of _course_ that’s Jamie; Jamie’s going to be held in fucking contempt, and today’s going to end with one of them in prison after all—but the judge just sends a glare in Jamie’s direction and calls for silence.

“The court thanks the members of the jury for their time and their service. In accordance with the verdict reached, the defendant is acquitted of all indictments brought against him. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, court is adjourned.”

Everyone around him starts shuffling, gathering up their things, manipulating their limbs out of the awkward court benches and heading for the doors. Malcolm, for his part, finds he can’t move. He wouldn’t trust his knees to hold him up. He shakes his lawyer’s hand, smiles and thanks him, and ignores the puzzled look he gets as he makes no move to get up.

Fuck off, all of you. Give him a minute.

Before long, the court room’s empty, and Jamie’s slipped into the dock next to him. He’s grinning like a lunatic. Malcolm can’t help it, that expression _always_ echoes on his own, and it’s like a feedback loop when Jamie’s smile widens even more. He nudges his knee against Malcolm’s.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here?”

“They’re going to be like fucking mosquitoes in the Brazilian jungle out there.”

Jamie nods. “Probably. But you’re the good guy now. They’re going to want to celebrate you. Who knows, they might all get rainbow flags tattooed on their arses in your honour.”

“Ugh.” He puts his face in his hand, laughs. “I don’t want to be held responsible for an epidemic of gay fucking tramp stamps.”

“You’ve got to admit, it’d add that wee bit of _extra_ to your fucking legacy.”

“Oh, fuck off.” He takes a deep breath, steels himself. “I should’ve prepared a fucking statement.”

“You know, I think I’ve got an idea for that.”

Malcolm looks over. The glint in Jamie’s eyes is fucking worrisome.

\------

The court house is empty at this point. They’re all outside, waiting on the steps like Robin Hood’s fucking Merry Men in Sherwood Forest. Jamie drags Malcolm across the entrance hall, his palm in Jamie’s hand sort of clammy. He finally agreed to Jamie’s plan, but Jamie can tell by the amount of white in his eyes that he’s freaked as fuck.

Well, fair enough. Jamie is, too, a bit.

Cold air hits them in the face as they step outside. It’s as bad as expected. Everyone’s here, from the _Mirror_ and the _Sun_ over the _Mail_ to the _BBC_ , the _Guardian_ , and even the fucking _London Evening Standard_. As if on reflex, Malcolm tries to withdraw his hand, and Jamie tightens his grip. _Remember the fucking plan_.

“Hello, everyone!” He waves, gives them his best smile. “I give you _Malcolm Tucker_!” He jerks Malcolm’s arm up like a wrestling champion’s, and the crowd cheers.

Malcolm extricates himself, waves as well. “Thanks to all of you for being here!” He looks around. “It really is fucking _all_ of you, isn’t it? Are we missing anyone? _Camden Gazette_? _The Wharf_? _Islington Tribune_?”

There’s a whoop from the back, and Malcolm laughs as a cheer goes through the crowd. “Home sweet fucking home. Stop by later, and I’ll give you an exclusive.” He stalls out the rise of protests by raising his hands. “I know, I know, you all want one, and tell you what, be nice and you might get what you wish for. I’m feeling fucking generous. Not—” He holds up a finger, and it’s like he’s conducting, fucking _pianissimo_. “Not right now, though. Right now, all I want to do is go home. So give me a call; I know you all have my number, leave me a message, and if you’re lucky, I’ll call you back.”

They all start shouting questions at once, press in closer with their cameras and microphones. Malcolm holds them off, palms raised, and steps back to come up next to Jamie. Their eyes meet, and Jamie would be lying if he said that his stomach weren’t tying itself in knots.

“Here we go.” Malcolm’s voice is no more than a whisper. “If this goes fucking viral, I’ll never agree to any of your stupid fucking ideas ever again.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jamie steps up to him, slips a hand behind his neck. “Shut the fuck up and kiss me already.”

For once, Malcolm does as he’s told.

 

 

\------       ------

 

| 

After his acquittal, Malcolm Tucker takes a sabbatical to write his memoirs. He never publishes them; instead focuses his efforts on a political Twitter podcast and gathers a large following of primarily young listeners. In late 2014, _Channel 4_ ’s digital subsidiary _All 4_ approach him to host a pundit show after the American model. Negotiations are lengthy but successful, and the first edition of _Tuckered Weekly_ airs in September 2015. Struggling to produce satisfactory viewing figures at first, the show’s popularity soars during the coverage of the Brexit campaign and the American presidential election. In late 2016, the _Guardian_ describes _Tuckered Weekly_ as highly influential among 18-to-24 year olds.  
  
---|---  
  
Jamie MacDonald returns to print journalism. After a brief period as a freelancer, _DMG Media_ employs him as chief editor for the news section of the _Metro_ , London’s free public transport newspaper. Under his guidance, the paper widens their news coverage and defies print media’s falling trend by significantly increasing circulation. Primary focus lies on global news, hot button issues such as LGBT rights, and ethical transgressions in major societal institutions. Especially during the 2015 coverage of Cardinal O’Brian’s trial and conviction for predatory sexual conduct against junior priests in Scotland, the London Metro is deemed one of the leading sources of reliable news reporting by its priced peers.

|   
  
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As promised, the _Islington Tribune_ receives Malcolm Tucker's coveted post-trial exclusive. Outside of that, and the kiss in front of the court house witnessed and reported on by most London news outlets, Malcolm Tucker and Jamie MacDonald refuse to go public about any details of their relationship. In 2017, Fiona Tucker submits a documentary titled _Queer as Politics_ as her application to the National Film and Television School. Asked for comment by the press, the NFTS admissions board refuse to disclose any of its content, citing public figure privacy laws. Ms Tucker is admitted to the Factual Development and Production course.  
  
---


End file.
